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        The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, Volume 5 (With Poetry)
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Project Gutenberg's The Works of Edgar Allan Poe, by Edgar Allan Poe

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
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with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Works of Edgar Allan Poe
       Volume 5 (of 5) of the Raven Edition

Author: Edgar Allan Poe

Release Date: May 19, 2008 [EBook #2151]
Last Updated: October 6, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE ***




Produced by David Widger





</pre>
<p>
    <br /><br />
</p>
<h1>
    THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
</h1>
<h3>
    IN FIVE VOLUMES
</h3>
<p>
    <br />
</p>
<h2>
    The Raven Edition
</h2>
<p>
    <br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
    <br /> <br />
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
</p>
<p>
    <br />
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> A TALE OF JERUSALEM </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE SPHINX </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> HOP-FROG </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE MAN OF THE CROWD. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THOU ART THE MAN </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A
        SLING </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE POETIC PRINCIPLE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> OLD ENGLISH POETRY </a>
</p>
<p>
    <br /><br />
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> <big><b>POEMS</b></big> </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> POEMS OF LATER LIFE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> THE RAVEN. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> THE BELLS. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> ULALUME </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> TO HELEN </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> ANNABEL LEE. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> A VALENTINE. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> AN ENIGMA </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> FOR ANNIE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> TO F&mdash;&mdash;. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> ELDORADO. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW) </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW) </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE CITY IN THE SEA. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> THE SLEEPER. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_NOTE"> NOTES </a>
</p>
<p>
    <br /><br />
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> <big><b>POEMS OF MANHOOD</b></big> </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> LENORE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> TO ONE IN PARADISE. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> THE COLISEUM. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> THE HAUNTED PALACE. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> THE CONQUEROR WORM. </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> SILENCE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> DREAM-LAND </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> HYMN </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> TO ZANTE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> SCENES FROM &ldquo;POLITIAN&rdquo; </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> POEMS OF YOUTH </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION TO POEMS&mdash;1831 </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> <i>LETTER TO MR. B&mdash;.</i> </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> SONNET&mdash;TO SCIENCE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> AL AARAAF </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> TAMERLANE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> TO HELEN </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> THE VALLEY OF UNREST </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> ISRAFEL </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> TO &mdash;&mdash; </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> TO &mdash;&mdash; </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> TO THE RIVER&mdash;&mdash; </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> SONG </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> SPIRITS OF THE DEAD </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> A DREAM </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> ROMANCE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> FAIRY-LAND </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> THE LAKE &mdash;&mdash; TO&mdash;&mdash; </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> EVENING STAR </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> &ldquo;THE HAPPIEST DAY.&rdquo; </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> IMITATION </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> DREAMS </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> &ldquo;IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE&rdquo; </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_NOTE2"> NOTES </a>
</p>
<p>
    <br />
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> <big><b>DOUBTFUL POEMS</b></big> </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> ALONE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> TO ISADORE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> THE VILLAGE STREET </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> THE FOREST REVERIE </a>
</p>
<p class="toc">
    <a href="#link2H_NOTE3"> NOTES </a>
</p>
<p>
    <br /> <br />
</p>
<hr />
<p>
    <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    PHILOSOPHY OF FURNITURE.
</h2>
<p>
    In the internal decoration, if not in the external architecture of their
    residences, the English are supreme. The Italians have but little
    sentiment beyond marbles and colours. In France, <i>meliora probant,
    deteriora </i>sequuntur&mdash;the people are too much a race of gadabouts
    to maintain those household proprieties of which, indeed, they have a
    delicate appreciation, or at least the elements of a proper sense. The
    Chinese and most of the eastern races have a warm but inappropriate fancy.
    The Scotch are <i>poor </i>decorists. The Dutch have, perhaps, an
    indeterminate idea that a curtain is not a cabbage. In Spain they are <i>all
</i>curtains&mdash;a nation of hangmen. The Russians do not furnish. The
    Hottentots and Kickapoos are very well in their way. The Yankees alone are
    preposterous.
</p>
<p>
    How this happens, it is not difficult to see. We have no aristocracy of
    blood, and having therefore as a natural, and indeed as an inevitable
    thing, fashioned for ourselves an aristocracy of dollars, the <i>display
    of wealth </i>has here to take the place and perform the office of the
    heraldic display in monarchical countries. By a transition readily
    understood, and which might have been as readily foreseen, we have been
    brought to merge in simple <i>show</i> our notions of taste itself.
</p>
<p>
    To speak less abstractly. In England, for example, no mere parade of
    costly appurtenances would be so likely as with us, to create an
    impression of the beautiful in respect to the appurtenances themselves&mdash;or
    of taste as regards the proprietor:&mdash;this for the reason, first, that
    wealth is not, in England, the loftiest object of ambition as constituting
    a nobility; and secondly, that there, the true nobility of blood,
    confining itself within the strict limits of legitimate taste, rather
    avoids than affects that mere costliness in which a <i>parvenu </i>rivalry
    may at any time be successfully attempted.
</p>
<p>
    The people <i>will </i>imitate the nobles, and the result is a thorough
    diffusion of the proper feeling. But in America, the coins current being
    the sole arms of the aristocracy, their display may be said, in general,
    to be the sole means of the aristocratic distinction; and the populace,
    looking always upward for models, are insensibly led to confound the two
    entirely separate ideas of magnificence and beauty. In short, the cost of
    an article of furniture has at length come to be, with us, nearly the sole
    test of its merit in a decorative point of view&mdash;and this test, once
    established, has led the way to many analogous errors, readily traceable
    to the one primitive folly.
</p>
<p>
    There could be nothing more directly offensive to the eye of an artist
    than the interior of what is termed in the United States&mdash;that is to
    say, in Appallachia&mdash;a well-furnished apartment. Its most usual
    defect is a want of keeping. We speak of the keeping of a room as we would
    of the keeping of a picture&mdash;for both the picture and the room are
    amenable to those undeviating principles which regulate all varieties of
    art; and very nearly the same laws by which we decide on the higher merits
    of a painting, suffice for decision on the adjustment of a chamber.
</p>
<p>
    A want of keeping is observable sometimes in the character of the several
    pieces of furniture, but generally in their colours or modes of adaptation
    to use <i>Very </i>often the eye is offended by their inartistic
    arrangement. Straight lines are too prevalent&mdash;too uninterruptedly
    continued&mdash;or clumsily interrupted at right angles. If curved lines
    occur, they are repeated into unpleasant uniformity. By undue precision,
    the appearance of many a fine apartment is utterly spoiled.
</p>
<p>
    Curtains are rarely well disposed, or well chosen in respect to other
    decorations. With formal furniture, curtains are out of place; and an
    extensive volume of drapery of any kind is, under any circumstance,
    irreconcilable with good taste&mdash;the proper quantum, as well as the
    proper adjustment, depending upon the character of the general effect.
</p>
<p>
    Carpets are better understood of late than of ancient days, but we still
    very frequently err in their patterns and colours. The soul of the
    apartment is the carpet. From it are deduced not only the hues but the
    forms of all objects incumbent. A judge at common law may be an ordinary
    man; a good judge of a carpet <i>must be </i>a genius. Yet we have heard
    discoursing of carpets, with the air &ldquo;<i>d&rsquo;un mouton qui reve,&rdquo; </i>fellows
    who should not and who could not be entrusted with the management of their
    own <i>moustaches. </i>Every one knows that a large floor <i>may </i>have
    a covering of large figures, and that a small one must have a covering of
    small&mdash;yet this is not all the knowledge in the world. As regards
    texture, the Saxony is alone admissible. Brussels is the preterpluperfect
    tense of fashion, and Turkey is taste in its dying agonies. Touching
    pattern&mdash;a carpet should <i>not </i>be bedizzened out like a Riccaree
    Indian&mdash;all red chalk, yellow ochre, and cock&rsquo;s feathers. In brief&mdash;distinct
    grounds, and vivid circular or cycloid figures, <i>of no meaning, </i>are
    here Median laws. The abomination of flowers, or representations of
    well-known objects of any kind, should not be endured within the limits of
    Christendom. Indeed, whether on carpets, or curtains, or tapestry, or
    ottoman coverings, all upholstery of this nature should be rigidly
    Arabesque. As for those antique floor-cloth &amp; still occasionally seen
    in the dwellings of the rabble&mdash;cloths of huge, sprawling, and
    radiating devises, stripe-interspersed, and glorious with all hues, among
    which no ground is intelligible&mdash;these are but the wicked invention
    of a race of time-servers and money-lovers&mdash;children of Baal and
    worshippers of Mammon&mdash;Benthams, who, to spare thought and economize
    fancy, first cruelly invented the Kaleidoscope, and then established
    joint-stock companies to twirl it by steam.
</p>
<p>
    <i>Glare</i> is a leading error in the philosophy of American household
    decoration&mdash;an error easily recognised as deduced from the perversion
    of taste just specified., We are violently enamoured of gas and of glass.
    The former is totally inadmissible within doors. Its harsh and unsteady
    light offends. No one having both brains and eyes will use it. A mild, or
    what artists term a cool light, with its consequent warm shadows, will do
    wonders for even an ill-furnished apartment. Never was a more lovely
    thought than that of the astral lamp. We mean, of course, the astral lamp
    proper&mdash;the lamp of Argand, with its original plain ground-glass
    shade, and its tempered and uniform moonlight rays. The cut-glass shade is
    a weak invention of the enemy. The eagerness with which we have adopted
    it, partly on account of its <i>flashiness,</i> but principally on account
    of its <i>greater rest,</i> is a good commentary on the proposition with
    which we began. It is not too much to say, that the deliberate employer of
    a cut-glass shade, is either radically deficient in taste, or blindly
    subservient to the caprices of fashion. The light proceeding from one of
    these gaudy abominations is unequal broken, and painful. It alone is
    sufficient to mar a world of good effect in the furniture subjected to its
    influence. Female loveliness, in especial, is more than one-half
    disenchanted beneath its evil eye.
</p>
<p>
    In the matter of glass, generally, we proceed upon false principles. Its
    leading feature is <i>glitter&mdash;</i>and in that one word how much of
    all that is detestable do we express! Flickering, unquiet lights, are <i>sometimes
</i>pleasing&mdash;to children and idiots always so&mdash;but in the
    embellishment of a room they should be scrupulously avoided. In truth,
    even strong <i>steady </i>lights are inadmissible. The huge and unmeaning
    glass chandeliers, prism-cut, gas-lighted, and without shade, which dangle
    in our most fashionable drawing-rooms, may be cited as the quintessence of
    all that is false in taste or preposterous in folly.
</p>
<p>
    The rage for <i>glitter-</i>because its idea has become as we before
    observed, confounded with that of magnificence in the abstract&mdash;has
    led us, also, to the exaggerated employment of mirrors. We line our
    dwellings with great British plates, and then imagine we have done a fine
    thing. Now the slightest thought will be sufficient to convince any one
    who has an eye at all, of the ill effect of numerous looking-glasses, and
    especially of large ones. Regarded apart from its reflection, the mirror
    presents a continuous, flat, colourless, unrelieved surface,&mdash;a thing
    always and obviously unpleasant. Considered as a reflector, it is potent
    in producing a monstrous and odious uniformity: and the evil is here
    aggravated, not in merely direct proportion with the augmentation of its
    sources, but in a ratio constantly increasing. In fact, a room with four
    or five mirrors arranged at random, is, for all purposes of artistic show,
    a room of no shape at all. If we add to this evil, the attendant glitter
    upon glitter, we have a perfect farrago of discordant and displeasing
    effects. The veriest bumpkin, on entering an apartment so bedizzened,
    would be instantly aware of something wrong, although he might be
    altogether unable to assign a cause for his dissatisfaction. But let the
    same person be led into a room tastefully furnished, and he would be
    startled into an exclamation of pleasure and surprise.
</p>
<p>
    It is an evil growing out of our republican institutions, that here a man
    of large purse has usually a very little soul which he keeps in it. The
    corruption of taste is a portion or a pendant of the dollar-manufacture.
    As we grow rich, our ideas grow rusty. It is, therefore, not among <i>our
</i>aristocracy that we must look (if at all, in Appallachia), for the
    spirituality of a British <i>boudoir. </i>But we have seen apartments in
    the tenure of Americans of moderns [possibly &ldquo;modest&rdquo; or &ldquo;moderate&rdquo;]
    means, which, in negative merit at least, might vie with any of the <i>or-molu&rsquo;d
</i>cabinets of our friends across the water. Even <i>now</i>, there is
    present to our mind&rsquo;s eye a small and not, ostentatious chamber with whose
    decorations no fault can be found. The proprietor lies asleep on a sofa&mdash;the
    weather is cool&mdash;the time is near midnight: we will make a sketch of
    the room during his slumber.
</p>
<p>
    It is oblong&mdash;some thirty feet in length and twenty-five in breadth&mdash;a
    shape affording the best(ordinary) opportunities for the adjustment of
    furniture. It has but one door&mdash;by no means a wide one&mdash;which is
    at one end of the parallelogram, and but two windows, which are at the
    other. These latter are large, reaching down to the floor&mdash;have deep
    recesses&mdash;and open on an Italian <i>veranda. </i>Their panes are of a
    crimson-tinted glass, set in rose-wood framings, more massive than usual.
    They are curtained within the recess, by a thick silver tissue adapted to
    the shape of the window, and hanging loosely in small volumes. Without the
    recess are curtains of an exceedingly rich crimson silk, fringed with a
    deep network of gold, and lined with silver tissue, which is the material
    of the exterior blind. There are no cornices; but the folds of the whole
    fabric (which are sharp rather than massive, and have an airy appearance),
    issue from beneath a broad entablature of rich giltwork, which encircles
    the room at the junction of the ceiling and walls. The drapery is thrown
    open also, or closed, by means of a thick rope of gold loosely enveloping
    it, and resolving itself readily into a knot; no pins or other such
    devices are apparent. The colours of the curtains and their fringe&mdash;the
    tints of crimson and gold&mdash;appear everywhere in profusion, and
    determine the <i>character </i>of the room. The carpet&mdash;of Saxony
    material&mdash;is quite half an inch thick, and is of the same crimson
    ground, relieved simply by the appearance of a gold cord (like that
    festooning the curtains) slightly relieved above the surface of the <i>ground,
</i>and thrown upon it in such a manner as to form a succession of short
    irregular curves&mdash;one occasionally overlaying the other. The walls
    are prepared with a glossy paper of a silver gray tint, spotted with small
    Arabesque devices of a fainter hue of the prevalent crimson. Many
    paintings relieve the expanse of paper. These are chiefly landscapes of an
    imaginative cast&mdash;such as the fairy grottoes of Stanfield, or the
    lake of the Dismal Swamp of Chapman. There are, nevertheless, three or
    four female heads, of an ethereal beauty-portraits in the manner of Sully.
    The tone of each picture is warm, but dark. There are no &ldquo;brilliant
    effects.&rdquo; <i>Repose </i>speaks in all. Not one is of small size.
    Diminutive paintings give that <i>spotty </i>look to a room, which is the
    blemish of so many a fine work of Art overtouched. The frames are broad
    but not deep, and richly carved, without being <i>dulled </i>or filagreed.
    They have the whole lustre of burnished gold. They lie flat on the walls,
    and do not hang off with cords. The designs themselves are often seen to
    better advantage in this latter position, but the general appearance of
    the chamber is injured. But one mirror&mdash;and this not a very large one&mdash;is
    visible. In shape it is nearly circular&mdash;and it is hung so that a
    reflection of the person can be obtained from it in none of the ordinary
    sitting-places of the room. Two large low sofas of rosewood and crimson
    silk, gold-flowered, form the only seats, with the exception of two light
    conversation chairs, also of rose-wood. There is a pianoforte (rose-wood,
    also), without cover, and thrown open. An octagonal table, formed
    altogether of the richest gold-threaded marble, is placed near one of the
    sofas. This is also without cover&mdash;the drapery of the curtains has
    been thought sufficient.. Four large and gorgeous Sevres vases, in which
    bloom a profusion of sweet and vivid flowers, occupy the slightly rounded
    angles of the room. A tall candelabrum, bearing a small antique lamp with
    highly perfumed oil, is standing near the head of my sleeping friend. Some
    light and graceful hanging shelves, with golden edges and crimson silk
    cords with gold tassels, sustain two or three hundred magnificently bound
    books. Beyond these things, there is no furniture, if we except an Argand
    lamp, with a plain crimson-tinted ground glass shade, which depends from
    He lofty vaulted ceiling by a single slender gold chain, and throws a
    tranquil but magical radiance over all.
</p>
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<h2>
    A TALE OF JERUSALEM
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Intensos rigidarn in frontern ascendere canos

     Passus erat&mdash;&mdash;
        &mdash;Lucan&mdash;De Catone

    &mdash;&mdash;a bristly bore.
</pre>
<p>
    &ldquo;LET us hurry to the walls,&rdquo; said Abel-Phittim to Buzi-Ben-Levi and Simeon
    the Pharisee, on the tenth day of the month Thammuz, in the year of the
    world three thousand nine hundred and forty-one&mdash;let us hasten to the
    ramparts adjoining the gate of Benjamin, which is in the city of David,
    and overlooking the camp of the uncircumcised; for it is the last hour of
    the fourth watch, being sunrise; and the idolaters, in fulfilment of the
    promise of Pompey, should be awaiting us with the lambs for the
    sacrifices.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Simeon, Abel-Phittim, and Duzi-Ben-Levi were the Gizbarim, or
    sub-collectors of the offering, in the holy city of Jerusalem.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Verily,&rdquo; replied the Pharisee; &ldquo;let us hasten: for this generosity in the
    heathen is unwonted; and fickle-mindedness has ever been an attribute of
    the worshippers of Baal.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;&lsquo;That they are fickle-minded and treacherous is as true as the
    Pentateuch,&rdquo; said Buzi-Ben-Levi, &ldquo;but that is only toward the people of
    Adonai. When was it ever known that the Ammonites proved wanting to their
    own interests? Methinks it is no great stretch of generosity to allow us
    lambs for the altar of the Lord, receiving in lieu thereof thirty silver
    shekels per head!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Thou forgettest, however, Ben-Levi,&rdquo; replied Abel-Phittim, &ldquo;that the
    Roman Pompey, who is now impiously besieging the city of the Most High,
    has no assurity that we apply not the lambs thus purchased for the altar,
    to the sustenance of the body, rather than of the spirit.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Now, by the five corners of my beard!&rdquo; shouted the Pharisee, who belonged
    to the sect called The Dashers (that little knot of saints whose manner of
    <i>dashing </i>and lacerating the feet against the pavement was long a
    thorn and a reproach to less zealous devotees-a stumbling-block to less
    gifted perambulators)&mdash;&ldquo;by the five corners of that beard which, as a
    priest, I am forbidden to shave!-have we lived to see the day when a
    blaspheming and idolatrous upstart of Rome shall accuse us of
    appropriating to the appetites of the flesh the most holy and consecrated
    elements? Have we lived to see the day when&mdash;&ldquo;&rsquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Let us not question the motives of the Philistine,&rdquo; interrupted
    Abel-Phittim&rsquo; &ldquo;for to-day we profit for the first time by his avarice or
    by his generosity; but rather let us hurry to the ramparts, lest offerings
    should be wanting for that altar whose fire the rains of heaven can not
    extinguish, and whose pillars of smoke no tempest can turn aside.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    That part of the city to which our worthy Gizbarim now hastened, and which
    bore the name of its architect, King David, was esteemed the most strongly
    fortified district of Jerusalem; being situated upon the steep and lofty
    hill of Zion. Here, a broad, deep, circumvallatory trench, hewn from the
    solid rock, was defended by a wall of great strength erected upon its
    inner edge. This wall was adorned, at regular interspaces, by square
    towers of white marble; the lowest sixty, and the highest one hundred and
    twenty cubits in height. But, in the vicinity of the gate of Benjamin, the
    wall arose by no means from the margin of the fosse. On the contrary,
    between the level of the ditch and the basement of the rampart sprang up a
    perpendicular cliff of two hundred and fifty cubits, forming part of the
    precipitous Mount Moriah. So that when Simeon and his associates arrived
    on the summit of the tower called Adoni-Bezek-the loftiest of all the
    turrets around about Jerusalem, and the usual place of conference with the
    besieging army-they looked down upon the camp of the enemy from an
    eminence excelling by many feet that of the Pyramid of Cheops, and, by
    several, that of the temple of Belus.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Verily,&rdquo; sighed the Pharisee, as he peered dizzily over the precipice,
    &ldquo;the uncircumcised are as the sands by the seashore-as the locusts in the
    wilderness! The valley of the King hath become the valley of Adommin.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;And yet,&rdquo; added Ben-Levi, &ldquo;thou canst not point me out a Philistine-no,
    not one-from Aleph to Tau-from the wilderness to the battlements&mdash;who
    seemeth any bigger than the letter Jod!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Lower away the basket with the shekels of silver!&rdquo; here shouted a Roman
    soldier in a hoarse, rough voice, which appeared to issue from the regions
    of Pluto&mdash;&ldquo;lower away the basket with the accursed coin which it has
    broken the jaw of a noble Roman to pronounce! Is it thus you evince your
    gratitude to our master Pompeius, who, in his condescension, has thought
    fit to listen to your idolatrous importunities? The god Phoebus, who is a
    true god, has been charioted for an hour-and were you not to be on the
    ramparts by sunrise? Aedepol! do you think that we, the conquerors of the
    world, have nothing better to do than stand waiting by the walls of every
    kennel, to traffic with the dogs of the earth? Lower away! I say&mdash;and
    see that your trumpery be bright in color and just in weight!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;El Elohim!&rdquo; ejaculated the Pharisee, as the discordant tones of the
    centurion rattled up the crags of the precipice, and fainted away against
    the temple&mdash;&ldquo;El Elohim!&mdash;who is the god Phoebus?&mdash;whom doth
    the blasphemer invoke? Thou, Buzi-Ben-Levi! who art read in the laws of
    the Gentiles, and hast sojourned among them who dabble with the Teraphim!&mdash;is
    it Nergal of whom the idolater speaketh?&mdash;-or Ashimah?&mdash;or
    Nibhaz,&mdash;or Tartak?&mdash;or Adramalech?&mdash;or Anamalech?&mdash;or
    Succoth-Benith?&mdash;or Dagon?&mdash;or Belial?&mdash;or Baal-Perith?&mdash;or
    Baal-Peor?&mdash;or Baal-Zebub?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Verily it is neither-but beware how thou lettest the rope slip too
    rapidly through thy fingers; for should the wicker-work chance to hang on
    the projection of Yonder crag, there will be a woful outpouring of the
    holy things of the sanctuary.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    By the assistance of some rudely constructed machinery, the heavily laden
    basket was now carefully lowered down among the multitude; and, from the
    giddy pinnacle, the Romans were seen gathering confusedly round it; but
    owing to the vast height and the prevalence of a fog, no distinct view of
    their operations could be obtained.
</p>
<p>
    Half an hour had already elapsed.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;We shall be too late!&rdquo; sighed the Pharisee, as at the expiration of this
    period he looked over into the abyss-&ldquo;we shall be too late! we shall be
    turned out of office by the Katholim.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;No more,&rdquo; responded Abel-Phittim&mdash;-&ldquo;no more shall we feast upon the
    fat of the land-no longer shall our beards be odorous with frankincense&mdash;our
    loins girded up with fine linen from the Temple.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Racal&rdquo; swore Ben-Levi, &ldquo;Racal do they mean to defraud us of the purchase
    money? or, Holy Moses! are they weighing the shekels of the tabernacle?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;They have given the signal at last!&rdquo; cried the Pharisee&mdash;&mdash;-&ldquo;they
    have given the signal at last! pull away, Abel-Phittim!&mdash;and thou,
    Buzi-Ben-Levi, pull away!&mdash;for verily the Philistines have either
    still hold upon the basket, or the Lord hath softened their hearts to
    place therein a beast of good weight!&rdquo; And the Gizbarim pulled away, while
    their burden swung heavily upward through the still increasing mist.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Booshoh he!&rdquo;&mdash;as, at the conclusion of an hour, some object at the
    extremity of the rope became indistinctly visible&mdash;&ldquo;Booshoh he!&rdquo; was
    the exclamation which burst from the lips of Ben-Levi.
</p>
<hr />
<p>
    &ldquo;Booshoh he!&mdash;for shame!&mdash;it is a ram from the thickets of
    Engedi, and as rugged as the valley of jehosaphat!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;It is a firstling of the flock,&rdquo; said Abel-Phittim, &ldquo;I know him by the
    bleating of his lips, and the innocent folding of his limbs. His eyes are
    more beautiful than the jewels of the Pectoral, and his flesh is like the
    honey of Hebron.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;It is a fatted calf from the pastures of Bashan,&rdquo; said the Pharisee, &ldquo;the
    heathen have dealt wonderfully with us&mdash;&mdash;let us raise up our
    voices in a psalm&mdash;let us give thanks on the shawm and on the
    psaltery-on the harp and on the huggab-on the cythern and on the sackbut!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    It was not until the basket had arrived within a few feet of the Gizbarim
    that a low grunt betrayed to their perception a hog of no common size.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Now El Emanu!&rdquo; slowly and with upturned eyes ejaculated the trio, as,
    letting go their hold, the emancipated porker tumbled headlong among the
    Philistines, &ldquo;El Emanu!-God be with us&mdash;it is <i>the unutterable
    flesh!&rdquo;</i>
</p>
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<h2>
    THE SPHINX
</h2>
<p>
    DURING the dread reign of the Cholera in New York, I had accepted the
    invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement
    of his <i>cottage ornee</i> on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around
    us all the ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling in
    the woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books, we
    should have passed the time pleasantly enough, but for the fearful
    intelligence which reached us every morning from the populous city. Not a
    day elapsed which did not bring us news of the decease of some
    acquaintance. Then as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily
    the loss of some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every
    messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent with death.
    That palsying thought, indeed, took entire possession of my soul. I could
    neither speak, think, nor dream of any thing else. My host was of a less
    excitable temperament, and, although greatly depressed in spirits, exerted
    himself to sustain my own. His richly philosophical intellect was not at
    any time affected by unrealities. To the substances of terror he was
    sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no apprehension.
</p>
<p>
    His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal gloom into which
    I had fallen, were frustrated, in great measure, by certain volumes which
    I had found in his library. These were of a character to force into
    germination whatever seeds of hereditary superstition lay latent in my
    bosom. I had been reading these books without his knowledge, and thus he
    was often at a loss to account for the forcible impressions which had been
    made upon my fancy.
</p>
<p>
    A favorite topic with me was the popular belief in omens&mdash;a belief
    which, at this one epoch of my life, I was almost seriously disposed to
    defend. On this subject we had long and animated discussions&mdash;he
    maintaining the utter groundlessness of faith in such matters,&mdash;I
    contending that a popular sentiment arising with absolute spontaneity-
    that is to say, without apparent traces of suggestion&mdash;had in itself
    the unmistakable elements of truth, and was entitled to as much respect as
    that intuition which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius.
</p>
<p>
    The fact is, that soon after my arrival at the cottage there had occurred
    to myself an incident so entirely inexplicable, and which had in it so
    much of the portentous character, that I might well have been excused for
    regarding it as an omen. It appalled, and at the same time so confounded
    and bewildered me, that many days elapsed before I could make up my mind
    to communicate the circumstances to my friend.
</p>
<p>
    Near the close of exceedingly warm day, I was sitting, book in hand, at an
    open window, commanding, through a long vista of the river banks, a view
    of a distant hill, the face of which nearest my position had been denuded
    by what is termed a land-slide, of the principal portion of its trees. My
    thoughts had been long wandering from the volume before me to the gloom
    and desolation of the neighboring city. Uplifting my eyes from the page,
    they fell upon the naked face of the bill, and upon an object&mdash;upon
    some living monster of hideous conformation, which very rapidly made its
    way from the summit to the bottom, disappearing finally in the dense
    forest below. As this creature first came in sight, I doubted my own
    sanity&mdash;or at least the evidence of my own eyes; and many minutes
    passed before I succeeded in convincing myself that I was neither mad nor
    in a dream. Yet when I described the monster (which I distinctly saw, and
    calmly surveyed through the whole period of its progress), my readers, I
    fear, will feel more difficulty in being convinced of these points than
    even I did myself.
</p>
<p>
    Estimating the size of the creature by comparison with the diameter of the
    large trees near which it passed&mdash;the few giants of the forest which
    had escaped the fury of the land-slide&mdash;I concluded it to be far
    larger than any ship of the line in existence. I say ship of the line,
    because the shape of the monster suggested the idea&mdash;the hull of one
    of our seventy-four might convey a very tolerable conception of the
    general outline. The mouth of the animal was situated at the extremity of
    a proboscis some sixty or seventy feet in length, and about as thick as
    the body of an ordinary elephant. Near the root of this trunk was an
    immense quantity of black shaggy hair&mdash;more than could have been
    supplied by the coats of a score of buffaloes; and projecting from this
    hair downwardly and laterally, sprang two gleaming tusks not unlike those
    of the wild boar, but of infinitely greater dimensions. Extending forward,
    parallel with the proboscis, and on each side of it, was a gigantic staff,
    thirty or forty feet in length, formed seemingly of pure crystal and in
    shape a perfect prism,&mdash;it reflected in the most gorgeous manner the
    rays of the declining sun. The trunk was fashioned like a wedge with the
    apex to the earth. From it there were outspread two pairs of wings&mdash;each
    wing nearly one hundred yards in length&mdash;one pair being placed above
    the other, and all thickly covered with metal scales; each scale
    apparently some ten or twelve feet in diameter. I observed that the upper
    and lower tiers of wings were connected by a strong chain. But the chief
    peculiarity of this horrible thing was the representation of a Death&rsquo;s
    Head, which covered nearly the whole surface of its breast, and which was
    as accurately traced in glaring white, upon the dark ground of the body,
    as if it had been there carefully designed by an artist. While I regarded
    the terrific animal, and more especially the appearance on its breast,
    with a feeling or horror and awe&mdash;with a sentiment of forthcoming
    evil, which I found it impossible to quell by any effort of the reason, I
    perceived the huge jaws at the extremity of the proboscis suddenly expand
    themselves, and from them there proceeded a sound so loud and so
    expressive of wo, that it struck upon my nerves like a knell and as the
    monster disappeared at the foot of the hill, I fell at once, fainting, to
    the floor.
</p>
<p>
    Upon recovering, my first impulse, of course, was to inform my friend of
    what I had seen and heard&mdash;and I can scarcely explain what feeling of
    repugnance it was which, in the end, operated to prevent me.
</p>
<p>
    At length, one evening, some three or four days after the occurrence, we
    were sitting together in the room in which I had seen the apparition&mdash;I
    occupying the same seat at the same window, and he lounging on a sofa near
    at hand. The association of the place and time impelled me to give him an
    account of the phenomenon. He heard me to the end&mdash;at first laughed
    heartily&mdash;and then lapsed into an excessively grave demeanor, as if
    my insanity was a thing beyond suspicion. At this instant I again had a
    distinct view of the monster&mdash;to which, with a shout of absolute
    terror, I now directed his attention. He looked eagerly&mdash;but
    maintained that he saw nothing&mdash;although I designated minutely the
    course of the creature, as it made its way down the naked face of the
    hill.
</p>
<p>
    I was now immeasurably alarmed, for I considered the vision either as an
    omen of my death, or, worse, as the fore-runner of an attack of mania. I
    threw myself passionately back in my chair, and for some moments buried my
    face in my hands. When I uncovered my eyes, the apparition was no longer
    apparent.
</p>
<p>
    My host, however, had in some degree resumed the calmness of his demeanor,
    and questioned me very rigorously in respect to the conformation of the
    visionary creature. When I had fully satisfied him on this head, he sighed
    deeply, as if relieved of some intolerable burden, and went on to talk,
    with what I thought a cruel calmness, of various points of speculative
    philosophy, which had heretofore formed subject of discussion between us.
    I remember his insisting very especially (among other things) upon the
    idea that the principle source of error in all human investigations lay in
    the liability of the understanding to under-rate or to over-value the
    importance of an object, through mere mis-admeasurement of its
    propinquity. &ldquo;To estimate properly, for example,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;the influence
    to be exercised on mankind at large by the thorough diffusion of
    Democracy, the distance of the epoch at which such diffusion may possibly
    be accomplished should not fail to form an item in the estimate. Yet can
    you tell me one writer on the subject of government who has ever thought
    this particular branch of the subject worthy of discussion at all?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    He here paused for a moment, stepped to a book-case, and brought forth one
    of the ordinary synopses of Natural History. Requesting me then to
    exchange seats with him, that he might the better distinguish the fine
    print of the volume, he took my armchair at the window, and, opening the
    book, resumed his discourse very much in the same tone as before.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;But for your exceeding minuteness,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;in describing the monster,
    I might never have had it in my power to demonstrate to you what it was.
    In the first place, let me read to you a schoolboy account of the genus
    Sphinx, of the family Crepuscularia of the order Lepidoptera, of the class
    of Insecta&mdash;or insects. The account runs thus:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;&lsquo;Four membranous wings covered with little colored scales of metallic
    appearance; mouth forming a rolled proboscis, produced by an elongation of
    the jaws, upon the sides of which are found the rudiments of mandibles and
    downy palpi; the inferior wings retained to the superior by a stiff hair;
    antennae in the form of an elongated club, prismatic; abdomen pointed, The
    Death&rsquo;s&mdash;headed Sphinx has occasioned much terror among the vulgar,
    at times, by the melancholy kind of cry which it utters, and the insignia
    of death which it wears upon its corslet.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    He here closed the book and leaned forward in the chair, placing himself
    accurately in the position which I had occupied at the moment of beholding
    &ldquo;the monster.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Ah, here it is,&rdquo; he presently exclaimed&mdash;&ldquo;it is reascending the face
    of the hill, and a very remarkable looking creature I admit it to be.
    Still, it is by no means so large or so distant as you imagined it,&mdash;for
    the fact is that, as it wriggles its way up this thread, which some spider
    has wrought along the window-sash, I find it to be about the sixteenth of
    an inch in its extreme length, and also about the sixteenth of an inch
    distant from the pupil of my eye.&rdquo;
</p>
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<h2>
    HOP-FROG
</h2>
<p>
    I never knew anyone so keenly alive to a joke as the king was. He seemed
    to live only for joking. To tell a good story of the joke kind, and to
    tell it well, was the surest road to his favor. Thus it happened that his
    seven ministers were all noted for their accomplishments as jokers. They
    all took after the king, too, in being large, corpulent, oily men, as well
    as inimitable jokers. Whether people grow fat by joking, or whether there
    is something in fat itself which predisposes to a joke, I have never been
    quite able to determine; but certain it is that a lean joker is a rara
    avis in terris.
</p>
<p>
    About the refinements, or, as he called them, the &lsquo;ghost&rsquo; of wit, the king
    troubled himself very little. He had an especial admiration for breadth in
    a jest, and would often put up with length, for the sake of it.
    Over-niceties wearied him. He would have preferred Rabelais&rsquo; &lsquo;Gargantua&rsquo;
    to the &lsquo;Zadig&rsquo; of Voltaire: and, upon the whole, practical jokes suited
    his taste far better than verbal ones.
</p>
<p>
    At the date of my narrative, professing jesters had not altogether gone
    out of fashion at court. Several of the great continental &lsquo;powers&rsquo; still
    retain their &lsquo;fools,&rsquo; who wore motley, with caps and bells, and who were
    expected to be always ready with sharp witticisms, at a moment&rsquo;s notice,
    in consideration of the crumbs that fell from the royal table.
</p>
<p>
    Our king, as a matter of course, retained his &lsquo;fool.&rsquo; The fact is, he
    required something in the way of folly&mdash;if only to counterbalance the
    heavy wisdom of the seven wise men who were his ministers&mdash;not to
    mention himself.
</p>
<p>
    His fool, or professional jester, was not only a fool, however. His value
    was trebled in the eyes of the king, by the fact of his being also a dwarf
    and a cripple. Dwarfs were as common at court, in those days, as fools;
    and many monarchs would have found it difficult to get through their days
    (days are rather longer at court than elsewhere) without both a jester to
    laugh with, and a dwarf to laugh at. But, as I have already observed, your
    jesters, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, are fat, round, and
    unwieldy&mdash;so that it was no small source of self-gratulation with our
    king that, in Hop-Frog (this was the fool&rsquo;s name), he possessed a
    triplicate treasure in one person.
</p>
<p>
    I believe the name &lsquo;Hop-Frog&rsquo; was not that given to the dwarf by his
    sponsors at baptism, but it was conferred upon him, by general consent of
    the several ministers, on account of his inability to walk as other men
    do. In fact, Hop-Frog could only get along by a sort of interjectional
    gait&mdash;something between a leap and a wriggle&mdash;a movement that
    afforded illimitable amusement, and of course consolation, to the king,
    for (notwithstanding the protuberance of his stomach and a constitutional
    swelling of the head) the king, by his whole court, was accounted a
    capital figure.
</p>
<p>
    But although Hop-Frog, through the distortion of his legs, could move only
    with great pain and difficulty along a road or floor, the prodigious
    muscular power which nature seemed to have bestowed upon his arms, by way
    of compensation for deficiency in the lower limbs, enabled him to perform
    many feats of wonderful dexterity, where trees or ropes were in question,
    or any thing else to climb. At such exercises he certainly much more
    resembled a squirrel, or a small monkey, than a frog.
</p>
<p>
    I am not able to say, with precision, from what country Hop-Frog
    originally came. It was from some barbarous region, however, that no
    person ever heard of&mdash;a vast distance from the court of our king.
    Hop-Frog, and a young girl very little less dwarfish than himself
    (although of exquisite proportions, and a marvellous dancer), had been
    forcibly carried off from their respective homes in adjoining provinces,
    and sent as presents to the king, by one of his ever-victorious generals.
</p>
<p>
    Under these circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that a close
    intimacy arose between the two little captives. Indeed, they soon became
    sworn friends. Hop-Frog, who, although he made a great deal of sport, was
    by no means popular, had it not in his power to render Trippetta many
    services; but she, on account of her grace and exquisite beauty (although
    a dwarf), was universally admired and petted; so she possessed much
    influence; and never failed to use it, whenever she could, for the benefit
    of Hop-Frog.
</p>
<p>
    On some grand state occasion&mdash;I forgot what&mdash;the king determined
    to have a masquerade, and whenever a masquerade or any thing of that kind,
    occurred at our court, then the talents, both of Hop-Frog and Trippetta
    were sure to be called into play. Hop-Frog, in especial, was so inventive
    in the way of getting up pageants, suggesting novel characters, and
    arranging costumes, for masked balls, that nothing could be done, it
    seems, without his assistance.
</p>
<p>
    The night appointed for the fete had arrived. A gorgeous hall had been
    fitted up, under Trippetta&rsquo;s eye, with every kind of device which could
    possibly give eclat to a masquerade. The whole court was in a fever of
    expectation. As for costumes and characters, it might well be supposed
    that everybody had come to a decision on such points. Many had made up
    their minds (as to what roles they should assume) a week, or even a month,
    in advance; and, in fact, there was not a particle of indecision anywhere&mdash;except
    in the case of the king and his seven minsters. Why they hesitated I never
    could tell, unless they did it by way of a joke. More probably, they found
    it difficult, on account of being so fat, to make up their minds. At all
    events, time flew; and, as a last resort they sent for Trippetta and
    Hop-Frog.
</p>
<p>
    When the two little friends obeyed the summons of the king they found him
    sitting at his wine with the seven members of his cabinet council; but the
    monarch appeared to be in a very ill humor. He knew that Hop-Frog was not
    fond of wine, for it excited the poor cripple almost to madness; and
    madness is no comfortable feeling. But the king loved his practical jokes,
    and took pleasure in forcing Hop-Frog to drink and (as the king called it)
    &lsquo;to be merry.&rsquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Come here, Hop-Frog,&rdquo; said he, as the jester and his friend entered the
    room; &ldquo;swallow this bumper to the health of your absent friends, [here
    Hop-Frog sighed,] and then let us have the benefit of your invention. We
    want characters&mdash;characters, man&mdash;something novel&mdash;out of
    the way. We are wearied with this everlasting sameness. Come, drink! the
    wine will brighten your wits.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Hop-Frog endeavored, as usual, to get up a jest in reply to these advances
    from the king; but the effort was too much. It happened to be the poor
    dwarf&rsquo;s birthday, and the command to drink to his &lsquo;absent friends&rsquo; forced
    the tears to his eyes. Many large, bitter drops fell into the goblet as he
    took it, humbly, from the hand of the tyrant.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Ah! ha! ha!&rdquo; roared the latter, as the dwarf reluctantly drained the
    beaker.&mdash;&ldquo;See what a glass of good wine can do! Why, your eyes are
    shining already!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Poor fellow! his large eyes gleamed, rather than shone; for the effect of
    wine on his excitable brain was not more powerful than instantaneous. He
    placed the goblet nervously on the table, and looked round upon the
    company with a half&mdash;insane stare. They all seemed highly amused at
    the success of the king&rsquo;s &lsquo;joke.&rsquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;And now to business,&rdquo; said the prime minister, a very fat man.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the King; &ldquo;Come lend us your assistance. Characters, my fine
    fellow; we stand in need of characters&mdash;all of us&mdash;ha! ha! ha!&rdquo;
    and as this was seriously meant for a joke, his laugh was chorused by the
    seven.
</p>
<p>
    Hop-Frog also laughed although feebly and somewhat vacantly.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Come, come,&rdquo; said the king, impatiently, &ldquo;have you nothing to suggest?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I am endeavoring to think of something novel,&rdquo; replied the dwarf,
    abstractedly, for he was quite bewildered by the wine.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Endeavoring!&rdquo; cried the tyrant, fiercely; &ldquo;what do you mean by that? Ah,
    I perceive. You are Sulky, and want more wine. Here, drink this!&rdquo; and he
    poured out another goblet full and offered it to the cripple, who merely
    gazed at it, gasping for breath.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Drink, I say!&rdquo; shouted the monster, &ldquo;or by the fiends-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    The dwarf hesitated. The king grew purple with rage. The courtiers
    smirked. Trippetta, pale as a corpse, advanced to the monarch&rsquo;s seat, and,
    falling on her knees before him, implored him to spare her friend.
</p>
<p>
    The tyrant regarded her, for some moments, in evident wonder at her
    audacity. He seemed quite at a loss what to do or say&mdash;how most
    becomingly to express his indignation. At last, without uttering a
    syllable, he pushed her violently from him, and threw the contents of the
    brimming goblet in her face.
</p>
<p>
    The poor girl got up the best she could, and, not daring even to sigh,
    resumed her position at the foot of the table.
</p>
<p>
    There was a dead silence for about half a minute, during which the falling
    of a leaf, or of a feather, might have been heard. It was interrupted by a
    low, but harsh and protracted grating sound which seemed to come at once
    from every corner of the room.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;What&mdash;what&mdash;what are you making that noise for?&rdquo; demanded the
    king, turning furiously to the dwarf.
</p>
<p>
    The latter seemed to have recovered, in great measure, from his
    intoxication, and looking fixedly but quietly into the tyrant&rsquo;s face,
    merely ejaculated:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I&mdash;I? How could it have been me?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The sound appeared to come from without,&rdquo; observed one of the courtiers.
    &ldquo;I fancy it was the parrot at the window, whetting his bill upon his
    cage-wires.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;True,&rdquo; replied the monarch, as if much relieved by the suggestion; &ldquo;but,
    on the honor of a knight, I could have sworn that it was the gritting of
    this vagabond&rsquo;s teeth.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Hereupon the dwarf laughed (the king was too confirmed a joker to object
    to any one&rsquo;s laughing), and displayed a set of large, powerful, and very
    repulsive teeth. Moreover, he avowed his perfect willingness to swallow as
    much wine as desired. The monarch was pacified; and having drained another
    bumper with no very perceptible ill effect, Hop-Frog entered at once, and
    with spirit, into the plans for the masquerade.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I cannot tell what was the association of idea,&rdquo; observed he, very
    tranquilly, and as if he had never tasted wine in his life, &ldquo;but just
    after your majesty, had struck the girl and thrown the wine in her face&mdash;just
    after your majesty had done this, and while the parrot was making that odd
    noise outside the window, there came into my mind a capital diversion&mdash;one
    of my own country frolics&mdash;often enacted among us, at our
    masquerades: but here it will be new altogether. Unfortunately, however,
    it requires a company of eight persons and-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Here we are!&rdquo; cried the king, laughing at his acute discovery of the
    coincidence; &ldquo;eight to a fraction&mdash;I and my seven ministers. Come!
    what is the diversion?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;We call it,&rdquo; replied the cripple, &ldquo;the Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs, and
    it really is excellent sport if well enacted.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;We will enact it,&rdquo; remarked the king, drawing himself up, and lowering
    his eyelids.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The beauty of the game,&rdquo; continued Hop-Frog, &ldquo;lies in the fright it
    occasions among the women.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Capital!&rdquo; roared in chorus the monarch and his ministry.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I will equip you as ourang-outangs,&rdquo; proceeded the dwarf; &ldquo;leave all that
    to me. The resemblance shall be so striking, that the company of
    masqueraders will take you for real beasts&mdash;and of course, they will
    be as much terrified as astonished.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Oh, this is exquisite!&rdquo; exclaimed the king. &ldquo;Hop-Frog! I will make a man
    of you.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The chains are for the purpose of increasing the confusion by their
    jangling. You are supposed to have escaped, en masse, from your keepers.
    Your majesty cannot conceive the effect produced, at a masquerade, by
    eight chained ourang-outangs, imagined to be real ones by most of the
    company; and rushing in with savage cries, among the crowd of delicately
    and gorgeously habited men and women. The contrast is inimitable!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;It must be,&rdquo; said the king: and the council arose hurriedly (as it was
    growing late), to put in execution the scheme of Hop-Frog.
</p>
<p>
    His mode of equipping the party as ourang-outangs was very simple, but
    effective enough for his purposes. The animals in question had, at the
    epoch of my story, very rarely been seen in any part of the civilized
    world; and as the imitations made by the dwarf were sufficiently
    beast-like and more than sufficiently hideous, their truthfulness to
    nature was thus thought to be secured.
</p>
<p>
    The king and his ministers were first encased in tight-fitting stockinet
    shirts and drawers. They were then saturated with tar. At this stage of
    the process, some one of the party suggested feathers; but the suggestion
    was at once overruled by the dwarf, who soon convinced the eight, by
    ocular demonstration, that the hair of such a brute as the ourang-outang
    was much more efficiently represented by flu. A thick coating of the
    latter was accordingly plastered upon the coating of tar. A long chain was
    now procured. First, it was passed about the waist of the king, and tied,
    then about another of the party, and also tied; then about all
    successively, in the same manner. When this chaining arrangement was
    complete, and the party stood as far apart from each other as possible,
    they formed a circle; and to make all things appear natural, Hop-Frog
    passed the residue of the chain in two diameters, at right angles, across
    the circle, after the fashion adopted, at the present day, by those who
    capture Chimpanzees, or other large apes, in Borneo.
</p>
<p>
    The grand saloon in which the masquerade was to take place, was a circular
    room, very lofty, and receiving the light of the sun only through a single
    window at top. At night (the season for which the apartment was especially
    designed) it was illuminated principally by a large chandelier, depending
    by a chain from the centre of the sky-light, and lowered, or elevated, by
    means of a counter-balance as usual; but (in order not to look unsightly)
    this latter passed outside the cupola and over the roof.
</p>
<p>
    The arrangements of the room had been left to Trippetta&rsquo;s superintendence;
    but, in some particulars, it seems, she had been guided by the calmer
    judgment of her friend the dwarf. At his suggestion it was that, on this
    occasion, the chandelier was removed. Its waxen drippings (which, in
    weather so warm, it was quite impossible to prevent) would have been
    seriously detrimental to the rich dresses of the guests, who, on account
    of the crowded state of the saloon, could not all be expected to keep from
    out its centre; that is to say, from under the chandelier. Additional
    sconces were set in various parts of the hall, out of the war, and a
    flambeau, emitting sweet odor, was placed in the right hand of each of the
    Caryaides [Caryatides] that stood against the wall&mdash;some fifty or
    sixty altogether.
</p>
<p>
    The eight ourang-outangs, taking Hop-Frog&rsquo;s advice, waited patiently until
    midnight (when the room was thoroughly filled with masqueraders) before
    making their appearance. No sooner had the clock ceased striking, however,
    than they rushed, or rather rolled in, all together&mdash;for the
    impediments of their chains caused most of the party to fall, and all to
    stumble as they entered.
</p>
<p>
    The excitement among the masqueraders was prodigious, and filled the heart
    of the king with glee. As had been anticipated, there were not a few of
    the guests who supposed the ferocious-looking creatures to be beasts of
    some kind in reality, if not precisely ourang-outangs. Many of the women
    swooned with affright; and had not the king taken the precaution to
    exclude all weapons from the saloon, his party might soon have expiated
    their frolic in their blood. As it was, a general rush was made for the
    doors; but the king had ordered them to be locked immediately upon his
    entrance; and, at the dwarf&rsquo;s suggestion, the keys had been deposited with
    him.
</p>
<p>
    While the tumult was at its height, and each masquerader attentive only to
    his own safety (for, in fact, there was much real danger from the pressure
    of the excited crowd), the chain by which the chandelier ordinarily hung,
    and which had been drawn up on its removal, might have been seen very
    gradually to descend, until its hooked extremity came within three feet of
    the floor.
</p>
<p>
    Soon after this, the king and his seven friends having reeled about the
    hall in all directions, found themselves, at length, in its centre, and,
    of course, in immediate contact with the chain. While they were thus
    situated, the dwarf, who had followed noiselessly at their heels, inciting
    them to keep up the commotion, took hold of their own chain at the
    intersection of the two portions which crossed the circle diametrically
    and at right angles. Here, with the rapidity of thought, he inserted the
    hook from which the chandelier had been wont to depend; and, in an
    instant, by some unseen agency, the chandelier-chain was drawn so far
    upward as to take the hook out of reach, and, as an inevitable
    consequence, to drag the ourang-outangs together in close connection, and
    face to face.
</p>
<p>
    The masqueraders, by this time, had recovered, in some measure, from their
    alarm; and, beginning to regard the whole matter as a well-contrived
    pleasantry, set up a loud shout of laughter at the predicament of the
    apes.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Leave them to me!&rdquo; now screamed Hop-Frog, his shrill voice making itself
    easily heard through all the din. &ldquo;Leave them to me. I fancy I know them.
    If I can only get a good look at them, I can soon tell who they are.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Here, scrambling over the heads of the crowd, he managed to get to the
    wall; when, seizing a flambeau from one of the Caryatides, he returned, as
    he went, to the centre of the room-leaping, with the agility of a monkey,
    upon the kings head, and thence clambered a few feet up the chain; holding
    down the torch to examine the group of ourang-outangs, and still
    screaming: &ldquo;I shall soon find out who they are!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    And now, while the whole assembly (the apes included) were convulsed with
    laughter, the jester suddenly uttered a shrill whistle; when the chain
    flew violently up for about thirty feet&mdash;dragging with it the
    dismayed and struggling ourang-outangs, and leaving them suspended in
    mid-air between the sky-light and the floor. Hop-Frog, clinging to the
    chain as it rose, still maintained his relative position in respect to the
    eight maskers, and still (as if nothing were the matter) continued to
    thrust his torch down toward them, as though endeavoring to discover who
    they were.
</p>
<p>
    So thoroughly astonished was the whole company at this ascent, that a dead
    silence, of about a minute&rsquo;s duration, ensued. It was broken by just such
    a low, harsh, grating sound, as had before attracted the attention of the
    king and his councillors when the former threw the wine in the face of
    Trippetta. But, on the present occasion, there could be no question as to
    whence the sound issued. It came from the fang&mdash;like teeth of the
    dwarf, who ground them and gnashed them as he foamed at the mouth, and
    glared, with an expression of maniacal rage, into the upturned
    countenances of the king and his seven companions.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Ah, ha!&rdquo; said at length the infuriated jester. &ldquo;Ah, ha! I begin to see
    who these people are now!&rdquo; Here, pretending to scrutinize the king more
    closely, he held the flambeau to the flaxen coat which enveloped him, and
    which instantly burst into a sheet of vivid flame. In less than half a
    minute the whole eight ourang-outangs were blazing fiercely, amid the
    shrieks of the multitude who gazed at them from below, horror-stricken,
    and without the power to render them the slightest assistance.
</p>
<p>
    At length the flames, suddenly increasing in virulence, forced the jester
    to climb higher up the chain, to be out of their reach; and, as he made
    this movement, the crowd again sank, for a brief instant, into silence.
    The dwarf seized his opportunity, and once more spoke:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I now see distinctly.&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;what manner of people these maskers are.
    They are a great king and his seven privy-councillors,&mdash;a king who
    does not scruple to strike a defenceless girl and his seven councillors
    who abet him in the outrage. As for myself, I am simply Hop-Frog, the
    jester&mdash;and this is my last jest.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Owing to the high combustibility of both the flax and the tar to which it
    adhered, the dwarf had scarcely made an end of his brief speech before the
    work of vengeance was complete. The eight corpses swung in their chains, a
    fetid, blackened, hideous, and indistinguishable mass. The cripple hurled
    his torch at them, clambered leisurely to the ceiling, and disappeared
    through the sky-light.
</p>
<p>
    It is supposed that Trippetta, stationed on the roof of the saloon, had
    been the accomplice of her friend in his fiery revenge, and that,
    together, they effected their escape to their own country: for neither was
    seen again.
</p>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE MAN OF THE CROWD.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Ce grand malheur, de ne pouvoir être seul.

              <i>La Bruyère</i>.
</pre>
<p>
    IT was well said of a certain German book that &ldquo;<i>er lasst sich nicht
    lesen</i>&rdquo;&mdash;it does not permit itself to be read. There are some
    secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in
    their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors and looking them
    piteously in the eyes&mdash;die with despair of heart and convulsion of
    throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer
    themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes
    up a burthen so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the
    grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.
</p>
<p>
    Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat at the
    large bow window of the D&mdash;&mdash;- Coffee-House in London. For some
    months I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with
    returning strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which are so
    precisely the converse of ennui&mdash;moods of the keenest appetency, when
    the film from the mental vision departs&mdash;the [Greek phrase]&mdash;and
    the intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its every-day condition,
    as does the vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy
    rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived
    positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt
    a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With a cigar in my mouth
    and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself for the greater part
    of the afternoon, now in poring over advertisements, now in observing the
    promiscuous company in the room, and now in peering through the smoky
    panes into the street.
</p>
<p>
    This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and had
    been very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came on,
    the throng momently increased; and, by the time the lamps were well
    lighted, two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing past
    the door. At this particular period of the evening I had never before been
    in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me,
    therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all
    care of things within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of
    the scene without.
</p>
<p>
    At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked
    at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate
    relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded with minute
    interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gait, visage,
    and expression of countenance.
</p>
<p>
    By far the greater number of those who went by had a satisfied
    business-like demeanor, and seemed to be thinking only of making their way
    through the press. Their brows were knit, and their eyes rolled quickly;
    when pushed against by fellow-wayfarers they evinced no symptom of
    impatience, but adjusted their clothes and hurried on. Others, still a
    numerous class, were restless in their movements, had flushed faces, and
    talked and gesticulated to themselves, as if feeling in solitude on
    account of the very denseness of the company around. When impeded in their
    progress, these people suddenly ceased muttering, but re-doubled their
    gesticulations, and awaited, with an absent and overdone smile upon the
    lips, the course of the persons impeding them. If jostled, they bowed
    profusely to the jostlers, and appeared overwhelmed with confusion.&mdash;There
    was nothing very distinctive about these two large classes beyond what I
    have noted. Their habiliments belonged to that order which is pointedly
    termed the decent. They were undoubtedly noblemen, merchants, attorneys,
    tradesmen, stock-jobbers&mdash;the Eupatrids and the common-places of
    society&mdash;men of leisure and men actively engaged in affairs of their
    own&mdash;conducting business upon their own responsibility. They did not
    greatly excite my attention.
</p>
<p>
    The tribe of clerks was an obvious one and here I discerned two remarkable
    divisions. There were the junior clerks of flash houses&mdash;young
    gentlemen with tight coats, bright boots, well-oiled hair, and
    supercilious lips. Setting aside a certain dapperness of carriage, which
    may be termed deskism for want of a better word, the manner of these
    persons seemed to me an exact fac-simile of what had been the perfection
    of bon ton about twelve or eighteen months before. They wore the cast-off
    graces of the gentry;&mdash;and this, I believe, involves the best
    definition of the class.
</p>
<p>
    The division of the upper clerks of staunch firms, or of the &ldquo;steady old
    fellows,&rdquo; it was not possible to mistake. These were known by their coats
    and pantaloons of black or brown, made to sit comfortably, with white
    cravats and waistcoats, broad solid-looking shoes, and thick hose or
    gaiters.&mdash;They had all slightly bald heads, from which the right
    ears, long used to pen-holding, had an odd habit of standing off on end. I
    observed that they always removed or settled their hats with both hands,
    and wore watches, with short gold chains of a substantial and ancient
    pattern. Theirs was the affectation of respectability;&mdash;if indeed
    there be an affectation so honorable.
</p>
<p>
    There were many individuals of dashing appearance, whom I easily
    understood as belonging to the race of swell pick-pockets with which all
    great cities are infested. I watched these gentry with much
    inquisitiveness, and found it difficult to imagine how they should ever be
    mistaken for gentlemen by gentlemen themselves. Their voluminousness of
    wristband, with an air of excessive frankness, should betray them at once.
</p>
<p>
    The gamblers, of whom I descried not a few, were still more easily
    recognisable. They wore every variety of dress, from that of the desperate
    thimble-rig bully, with velvet waistcoat, fancy neckerchief, gilt chains,
    and filagreed buttons, to that of the scrupulously inornate clergyman,
    than which nothing could be less liable to suspicion. Still all were
    distinguished by a certain sodden swarthiness of complexion, a filmy
    dimness of eye, and pallor and compression of lip. There were two other
    traits, moreover, by which I could always detect them;&mdash;a guarded
    lowness of tone in conversation, and a more than ordinary extension of the
    thumb in a direction at right angles with the fingers.&mdash;Very often,
    in company with these sharpers, I observed an order of men somewhat
    different in habits, but still birds of a kindred feather. They may be
    defined as the gentlemen who live by their wits. They seem to prey upon
    the public in two battalions&mdash;that of the dandies and that of the
    military men. Of the first grade the leading features are long locks and
    smiles; of the second frogged coats and frowns.
</p>
<p>
    Descending in the scale of what is termed gentility, I found darker and
    deeper themes for speculation. I saw Jew pedlars, with hawk eyes flashing
    from countenances whose every other feature wore only an expression of
    abject humility; sturdy professional street beggars scowling upon
    mendicants of a better stamp, whom despair alone had driven forth into the
    night for charity; feeble and ghastly invalids, upon whom death had placed
    a sure hand, and who sidled and tottered through the mob, looking every
    one beseechingly in the face, as if in search of some chance consolation,
    some lost hope; modest young girls returning from long and late labor to a
    cheerless home, and shrinking more tearfully than indignantly from the
    glances of ruffians, whose direct contact, even, could not be avoided;
    women of the town of all kinds and of all ages&mdash;the unequivocal
    beauty in the prime of her womanhood, putting one in mind of the statue in
    Lucian, with the surface of Parian marble, and the interior filled with
    filth&mdash;the loathsome and utterly lost leper in rags&mdash;the
    wrinkled, bejewelled and paint-begrimed beldame, making a last effort at
    youth&mdash;the mere child of immature form, yet, from long association,
    an adept in the dreadful coquetries of her trade, and burning with a rabid
    ambition to be ranked the equal of her elders in vice; drunkards
    innumerable and indescribable&mdash;some in shreds and patches, reeling,
    inarticulate, with bruised visage and lack-lustre eyes&mdash;some in whole
    although filthy garments, with a slightly unsteady swagger, thick sensual
    lips, and hearty-looking rubicund faces&mdash;others clothed in materials
    which had once been good, and which even now were scrupulously well
    brushed&mdash;men who walked with a more than naturally firm and springy
    step, but whose countenances were fearfully pale, whose eyes hideously
    wild and red, and who clutched with quivering fingers, as they strode
    through the crowd, at every object which came within their reach; beside
    these, pie-men, porters, coal&mdash;heavers, sweeps; organ-grinders,
    monkey-exhibiters and ballad mongers, those who vended with those who
    sang; ragged artizans and exhausted laborers of every description, and all
    full of a noisy and inordinate vivacity which jarred discordantly upon the
    ear, and gave an aching sensation to the eye.
</p>
<p>
    As the night deepened, so deepened to me the interest of the scene; for
    not only did the general character of the crowd materially alter (its
    gentler features retiring in the gradual withdrawal of the more orderly
    portion of the people, and its harsher ones coming out into bolder relief,
    as the late hour brought forth every species of infamy from its den,) but
    the rays of the gas-lamps, feeble at first in their struggle with the
    dying day, had now at length gained ascendancy, and threw over every thing
    a fitful and garish lustre. All was dark yet splendid&mdash;as that ebony
    to which has been likened the style of Tertullian.
</p>
<p>
    The wild effects of the light enchained me to an examination of individual
    faces; and although the rapidity with which the world of light flitted
    before the window, prevented me from casting more than a glance upon each
    visage, still it seemed that, in my then peculiar mental state, I could
    frequently read, even in that brief interval of a glance, the history of
    long years.
</p>
<p>
    With my brow to the glass, I was thus occupied in scrutinizing the mob,
    when suddenly there came into view a countenance (that of a decrepid old
    man, some sixty-five or seventy years of age,)&mdash;a countenance which
    at once arrested and absorbed my whole attention, on account of the
    absolute idiosyncrasy of its expression. Any thing even remotely
    resembling that expression I had never seen before. I well remember that
    my first thought, upon beholding it, was that Retzch, had he viewed it,
    would have greatly preferred it to his own pictural incarnations of the
    fiend. As I endeavored, during the brief minute of my original survey, to
    form some analysis of the meaning conveyed, there arose confusedly and
    paradoxically within my mind, the ideas of vast mental power, of caution,
    of penuriousness, of avarice, of coolness, of malice, of blood
    thirstiness, of triumph, of merriment, of excessive terror, of intense&mdash;of
    supreme despair. I felt singularly aroused, startled, fascinated. &ldquo;How
    wild a history,&rdquo; I said to myself, &ldquo;is written within that bosom!&rdquo; Then
    came a craving desire to keep the man in view&mdash;to know more of him.
    Hurriedly putting on an overcoat, and seizing my hat and cane, I made my
    way into the street, and pushed through the crowd in the direction which I
    had seen him take; for he had already disappeared. With some little
    difficulty I at length came within sight of him, approached, and followed
    him closely, yet cautiously, so as not to attract his attention.
</p>
<p>
    I had now a good opportunity of examining his person. He was short in
    stature, very thin, and apparently very feeble. His clothes, generally,
    were filthy and ragged; but as he came, now and then, within the strong
    glare of a lamp, I perceived that his linen, although dirty, was of
    beautiful texture; and my vision deceived me, or, through a rent in a
    closely-buttoned and evidently second-handed roquelaire which enveloped
    him, I caught a glimpse both of a diamond and of a dagger. These
    observations heightened my curiosity, and I resolved to follow the
    stranger whithersoever he should go.
</p>
<p>
    It was now fully night-fall, and a thick humid fog hung over the city,
    soon ending in a settled and heavy rain. This change of weather had an odd
    effect upon the crowd, the whole of which was at once put into new
    commotion, and overshadowed by a world of umbrellas. The waver, the
    jostle, and the hum increased in a tenfold degree. For my own part I did
    not much regard the rain&mdash;the lurking of an old fever in my system
    rendering the moisture somewhat too dangerously pleasant. Tying a
    handkerchief about my mouth, I kept on. For half an hour the old man held
    his way with difficulty along the great thoroughfare; and I here walked
    close at his elbow through fear of losing sight of him. Never once turning
    his head to look back, he did not observe me. By and bye he passed into a
    cross street, which, although densely filled with people, was not quite so
    much thronged as the main one he had quitted. Here a change in his
    demeanor became evident. He walked more slowly and with less object than
    before&mdash;more hesitatingly. He crossed and re-crossed the way
    repeatedly without apparent aim; and the press was still so thick that, at
    every such movement, I was obliged to follow him closely. The street was a
    narrow and long one, and his course lay within it for nearly an hour,
    during which the passengers had gradually diminished to about that number
    which is ordinarily seen at noon in Broadway near the Park&mdash;so vast a
    difference is there between a London populace and that of the most
    frequented American city. A second turn brought us into a square,
    brilliantly lighted, and overflowing with life. The old manner of the
    stranger re-appeared. His chin fell upon his breast, while his eyes rolled
    wildly from under his knit brows, in every direction, upon those who
    hemmed him in. He urged his way steadily and perseveringly. I was
    surprised, however, to find, upon his having made the circuit of the
    square, that he turned and retraced his steps. Still more was I astonished
    to see him repeat the same walk several times&mdash;once nearly detecting
    me as he came round with a sudden movement.
</p>
<p>
    In this exercise he spent another hour, at the end of which we met with
    far less interruption from passengers than at first. The rain fell fast;
    the air grew cool; and the people were retiring to their homes. With a
    gesture of impatience, the wanderer passed into a bye-street comparatively
    deserted. Down this, some quarter of a mile long, he rushed with an
    activity I could not have dreamed of seeing in one so aged, and which put
    me to much trouble in pursuit. A few minutes brought us to a large and
    busy bazaar, with the localities of which the stranger appeared well
    acquainted, and where his original demeanor again became apparent, as he
    forced his way to and fro, without aim, among the host of buyers and
    sellers.
</p>
<p>
    During the hour and a half, or thereabouts, which we passed in this place,
    it required much caution on my part to keep him within reach without
    attracting his observation. Luckily I wore a pair of caoutchouc
    over-shoes, and could move about in perfect silence. At no moment did he
    see that I watched him. He entered shop after shop, priced nothing, spoke
    no word, and looked at all objects with a wild and vacant stare. I was now
    utterly amazed at his behavior, and firmly resolved that we should not
    part until I had satisfied myself in some measure respecting him.
</p>
<p>
    A loud-toned clock struck eleven, and the company were fast deserting the
    bazaar. A shop-keeper, in putting up a shutter, jostled the old man, and
    at the instant I saw a strong shudder come over his frame. He hurried into
    the street, looked anxiously around him for an instant, and then ran with
    incredible swiftness through many crooked and people-less lanes, until we
    emerged once more upon the great thoroughfare whence we had started&mdash;the
    street of the D&mdash;&mdash; Hotel. It no longer wore, however, the same
    aspect. It was still brilliant with gas; but the rain fell fiercely, and
    there were few persons to be seen. The stranger grew pale. He walked
    moodily some paces up the once populous avenue, then, with a heavy sigh,
    turned in the direction of the river, and, plunging through a great
    variety of devious ways, came out, at length, in view of one of the
    principal theatres. It was about being closed, and the audience were
    thronging from the doors. I saw the old man gasp as if for breath while he
    threw himself amid the crowd; but I thought that the intense agony of his
    countenance had, in some measure, abated. His head again fell upon his
    breast; he appeared as I had seen him at first. I observed that he now
    took the course in which had gone the greater number of the audience&mdash;but,
    upon the whole, I was at a loss to comprehend the waywardness of his
    actions.
</p>
<p>
    As he proceeded, the company grew more scattered, and his old uneasiness
    and vacillation were resumed. For some time he followed closely a party of
    some ten or twelve roisterers; but from this number one by one dropped
    off, until three only remained together, in a narrow and gloomy lane
    little frequented. The stranger paused, and, for a moment, seemed lost in
    thought; then, with every mark of agitation, pursued rapidly a route which
    brought us to the verge of the city, amid regions very different from
    those we had hitherto traversed. It was the most noisome quarter of
    London, where every thing wore the worst impress of the most deplorable
    poverty, and of the most desperate crime. By the dim light of an
    accidental lamp, tall, antique, worm-eaten, wooden tenements were seen
    tottering to their fall, in directions so many and capricious that scarce
    the semblance of a passage was discernible between them. The paving-stones
    lay at random, displaced from their beds by the rankly-growing grass.
    Horrible filth festered in the dammed-up gutters. The whole atmosphere
    teemed with desolation. Yet, as we proceeded, the sounds of human life
    revived by sure degrees, and at length large bands of the most abandoned
    of a London populace were seen reeling to and fro. The spirits of the old
    man again flickered up, as a lamp which is near its death hour. Once more
    he strode onward with elastic tread. Suddenly a corner was turned, a blaze
    of light burst upon our sight, and we stood before one of the huge
    suburban temples of Intemperance&mdash;one of the palaces of the fiend,
    Gin.
</p>
<p>
    It was now nearly day-break; but a number of wretched inebriates still
    pressed in and out of the flaunting entrance. With a half shriek of joy
    the old man forced a passage within, resumed at once his original bearing,
    and stalked backward and forward, without apparent object, among the
    throng. He had not been thus long occupied, however, before a rush to the
    doors gave token that the host was closing them for the night. It was
    something even more intense than despair that I then observed upon the
    countenance of the singular being whom I had watched so pertinaciously.
    Yet he did not hesitate in his career, but, with a mad energy, retraced
    his steps at once, to the heart of the mighty London. Long and swiftly he
    fled, while I followed him in the wildest amazement, resolute not to
    abandon a scrutiny in which I now felt an interest all-absorbing. The sun
    arose while we proceeded, and, when we had once again reached that most
    thronged mart of the populous town, the street of the D&mdash;&mdash;-
    Hotel, it presented an appearance of human bustle and activity scarcely
    inferior to what I had seen on the evening before. And here, long, amid
    the momently increasing confusion, did I persist in my pursuit of the
    stranger. But, as usual, he walked to and fro, and during the day did not
    pass from out the turmoil of that street. And, as the shades of the second
    evening came on, I grew wearied unto death, and, stopping fully in front
    of the wanderer, gazed at him steadfastly in the face. He noticed me not,
    but resumed his solemn walk, while I, ceasing to follow, remained absorbed
    in contemplation. &ldquo;This old man,&rdquo; I said at length, &ldquo;is the type and the
    genius of deep crime. He refuses to be alone. [page 228:] He is the man of
    the crowd. It will be in vain to follow; for I shall learn no more of him,
    nor of his deeds. The worst heart of the world is a grosser book than the
    &lsquo;Hortulus Animæ,&rsquo; {*1} and perhaps it is but one of the great mercies of
    God that &lsquo;er lasst sich nicht lesen.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    {*1} The &ldquo;<i>Hortulus Animæ cum Oratiunculis Aliquibus Superadditis</i>&rdquo;
    of Grünninger
</p>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    NEVER BET THE DEVIL YOUR HEAD
</h2>
<h3>
    A Tale With a Moral.
</h3>
<p>
    &ldquo;<i>CON tal que las costumbres de un autor</i>,&rdquo; says Don Thomas de las
    Torres, in the preface to his &ldquo;Amatory Poems&rdquo; <i>&ldquo;sean puras y castas,
    importo muy poco que no sean igualmente severas sus obras&rdquo;</i>&mdash;meaning,
    in plain English, that, provided the morals of an author are pure
    personally, it signifies nothing what are the morals of his books. We
    presume that Don Thomas is now in Purgatory for the assertion. It would be
    a clever thing, too, in the way of poetical justice, to keep him there
    until his &ldquo;Amatory Poems&rdquo; get out of print, or are laid definitely upon
    the shelf through lack of readers. Every fiction should have a moral; and,
    what is more to the purpose, the critics have discovered that every
    fiction has. Philip Melanchthon, some time ago, wrote a commentary upon
    the &ldquo;Batrachomyomachia,&rdquo; and proved that the poet&rsquo;s object was to excite a
    distaste for sedition. Pierre la Seine, going a step farther, shows that
    the intention was to recommend to young men temperance in eating and
    drinking. Just so, too, Jacobus Hugo has satisfied himself that, by
    Euenis, Homer meant to insinuate John Calvin; by Antinous, Martin Luther;
    by the Lotophagi, Protestants in general; and, by the Harpies, the Dutch.
    Our more modern Scholiasts are equally acute. These fellows demonstrate a
    hidden meaning in &ldquo;The Antediluvians,&rdquo; a parable in Powhatan, &ldquo;new views
    in Cock Robin,&rdquo; and transcendentalism in &ldquo;Hop O&rsquo; My Thumb.&rdquo; In short, it
    has been shown that no man can sit down to write without a very profound
    design. Thus to authors in general much trouble is spared. A novelist, for
    example, need have no care of his moral. It is there&mdash;that is to say,
    it is somewhere&mdash;and the moral and the critics can take care of
    themselves. When the proper time arrives, all that the gentleman intended,
    and all that he did not intend, will be brought to light, in the &ldquo;Dial,&rdquo;
    or the &ldquo;Down-Easter,&rdquo; together with all that he ought to have intended,
    and the rest that he clearly meant to intend:&mdash;so that it will all
    come very straight in the end.
</p>
<p>
    There is no just ground, therefore, for the charge brought against me by
    certain ignoramuses&mdash;that I have never written a moral tale, or, in
    more precise words, a tale with a moral. They are not the critics
    predestined to bring me out, and develop my morals:&mdash;that is the
    secret. By and by the &ldquo;North American Quarterly Humdrum&rdquo; will make them
    ashamed of their stupidity. In the meantime, by way of staying execution&mdash;by
    way of mitigating the accusations against me&mdash;I offer the sad history
    appended,&mdash;a history about whose obvious moral there can be no
    question whatever, since he who runs may read it in the large capitals
    which form the title of the tale. I should have credit for this
    arrangement&mdash;a far wiser one than that of La Fontaine and others, who
    reserve the impression to be conveyed until the last moment, and thus
    sneak it in at the fag end of their fables.
</p>
<p>
    Defuncti injuria ne afficiantur was a law of the twelve tables, and De
    mortuis nil nisi bonum is an excellent injunction&mdash;even if the dead
    in question be nothing but dead small beer. It is not my design,
    therefore, to vituperate my deceased friend, Toby Dammit. He was a sad
    dog, it is true, and a dog&rsquo;s death it was that he died; but he himself was
    not to blame for his vices. They grew out of a personal defect in his
    mother. She did her best in the way of flogging him while an infant&mdash;for
    duties to her well&mdash;regulated mind were always pleasures, and babies,
    like tough steaks, or the modern Greek olive trees, are invariably the
    better for beating&mdash;but, poor woman! she had the misfortune to be
    left-handed, and a child flogged left-handedly had better be left
    unflogged. The world revolves from right to left. It will not do to whip a
    baby from left to right. If each blow in the proper direction drives an
    evil propensity out, it follows that every thump in an opposite one knocks
    its quota of wickedness in. I was often present at Toby&rsquo;s chastisements,
    and, even by the way in which he kicked, I could perceive that he was
    getting worse and worse every day. At last I saw, through the tears in my
    eyes, that there was no hope of the villain at all, and one day when he
    had been cuffed until he grew so black in the face that one might have
    mistaken him for a little African, and no effect had been produced beyond
    that of making him wriggle himself into a fit, I could stand it no longer,
    but went down upon my knees forthwith, and, uplifting my voice, made
    prophecy of his ruin.
</p>
<p>
    The fact is that his precocity in vice was awful. At five months of age he
    used to get into such passions that he was unable to articulate. At six
    months, I caught him gnawing a pack of cards. At seven months he was in
    the constant habit of catching and kissing the female babies. At eight
    months he peremptorily refused to put his signature to the Temperance
    pledge. Thus he went on increasing in iniquity, month after month, until,
    at the close of the first year, he not only insisted upon wearing
    moustaches, but had contracted a propensity for cursing and swearing, and
    for backing his assertions by bets.
</p>
<p>
    Through this latter most ungentlemanly practice, the ruin which I had
    predicted to Toby Dammit overtook him at last. The fashion had &ldquo;grown with
    his growth and strengthened with his strength,&rdquo; so that, when he came to
    be a man, he could scarcely utter a sentence without interlarding it with
    a proposition to gamble. Not that he actually laid wagers&mdash;no. I will
    do my friend the justice to say that he would as soon have laid eggs. With
    him the thing was a mere formula&mdash;nothing more. His expressions on
    this head had no meaning attached to them whatever. They were simple if
    not altogether innocent expletives&mdash;imaginative phrases wherewith to
    round off a sentence. When he said &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bet you so and so,&rdquo; nobody ever
    thought of taking him up; but still I could not help thinking it my duty
    to put him down. The habit was an immoral one, and so I told him. It was a
    vulgar one&mdash;this I begged him to believe. It was discountenanced by
    society&mdash;here I said nothing but the truth. It was forbidden by act
    of Congress&mdash;here I had not the slightest intention of telling a lie.
    I remonstrated&mdash;but to no purpose. I demonstrated&mdash;in vain. I
    entreated&mdash;he smiled. I implored&mdash;he laughed. I preached&mdash;he
    sneered. I threatened&mdash;he swore. I kicked him&mdash;he called for the
    police. I pulled his nose&mdash;he blew it, and offered to bet the Devil
    his head that I would not venture to try that experiment again.
</p>
<p>
    Poverty was another vice which the peculiar physical deficiency of
    Dammit&rsquo;s mother had entailed upon her son. He was detestably poor, and
    this was the reason, no doubt, that his expletive expressions about
    betting, seldom took a pecuniary turn. I will not be bound to say that I
    ever heard him make use of such a figure of speech as &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bet you a
    dollar.&rdquo; It was usually &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bet you what you please,&rdquo; or &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bet you
    what you dare,&rdquo; or &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bet you a trifle,&rdquo; or else, more significantly
    still, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bet the Devil my head.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    This latter form seemed to please him best;&mdash;perhaps because it
    involved the least risk; for Dammit had become excessively parsimonious.
    Had any one taken him up, his head was small, and thus his loss would have
    been small too. But these are my own reflections and I am by no means sure
    that I am right in attributing them to him. At all events the phrase in
    question grew daily in favor, notwithstanding the gross impropriety of a
    man betting his brains like bank-notes:&mdash;but this was a point which
    my friend&rsquo;s perversity of disposition would not permit him to comprehend.
    In the end, he abandoned all other forms of wager, and gave himself up to
    &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll bet the Devil my head,&rdquo; with a pertinacity and exclusiveness of
    devotion that displeased not less than it surprised me. I am always
    displeased by circumstances for which I cannot account. Mysteries force a
    man to think, and so injure his health. The truth is, there was something
    in the air with which Mr. Dammit was wont to give utterance to his
    offensive expression&mdash;something in his manner of enunciation&mdash;which
    at first interested, and afterwards made me very uneasy&mdash;something
    which, for want of a more definite term at present, I must be permitted to
    call queer; but which Mr. Coleridge would have called mystical, Mr. Kant
    pantheistical, Mr. Carlyle twistical, and Mr. Emerson hyperquizzitistical.
    I began not to like it at all. Mr. Dammits soul was in a perilous state. I
    resolved to bring all my eloquence into play to save it. I vowed to serve
    him as St. Patrick, in the Irish chronicle, is said to have served the
    toad,&mdash;that is to say, &ldquo;awaken him to a sense of his situation.&rdquo; I
    addressed myself to the task forthwith. Once more I betook myself to
    remonstrance. Again I collected my energies for a final attempt at
    expostulation.
</p>
<p>
    When I had made an end of my lecture, Mr. Dammit indulged himself in some
    very equivocal behavior. For some moments he remained silent, merely
    looking me inquisitively in the face. But presently he threw his head to
    one side, and elevated his eyebrows to a great extent. Then he spread out
    the palms of his hands and shrugged up his shoulders. Then he winked with
    the right eye. Then he repeated the operation with the left. Then he shut
    them both up very tight. Then he opened them both so very wide that I became
    seriously alarmed for the consequences. Then, applying his thumb to his
    nose, he thought proper to make an indescribable movement with the rest of
    his fingers. Finally, setting his arms a-kimbo, he condescended to reply.
</p>
<p>
    I can call to mind only the beads of his discourse. He would be obliged to
    me if I would hold my tongue. He wished none of my advice. He despised all
    my insinuations. He was old enough to take care of himself. Did I still
    think him baby Dammit? Did I mean to say any thing against his character?
    Did I intend to insult him? Was I a fool? Was my maternal parent aware, in
    a word, of my absence from the domiciliary residence? He would put this
    latter question to me as to a man of veracity, and he would bind himself
    to abide by my reply. Once more he would demand explicitly if my mother
    knew that I was out. My confusion, he said, betrayed me, and he would be
    willing to bet the Devil his head that she did not.
</p>
<p>
    Mr. Dammit did not pause for my rejoinder. Turning upon his heel, he left
    my presence with undignified precipitation. It was well for him that he
    did so. My feelings had been wounded. Even my anger had been aroused. For
    once I would have taken him up upon his insulting wager. I would have won
    for the Arch-Enemy Mr. Dammit&rsquo;s little head&mdash;for the fact is, my
    mamma was very well aware of my merely temporary absence from home.
</p>
<p>
    But Khoda shefa midêhed&mdash;Heaven gives relief&mdash;as the Mussulmans
    say when you tread upon their toes. It was in pursuance of my duty that I
    had been insulted, and I bore the insult like a man. It now seemed to me,
    however, that I had done all that could be required of me, in the case of
    this miserable individual, and I resolved to trouble him no longer with my
    counsel, but to leave him to his conscience and himself. But although I
    forebore to intrude with my advice, I could not bring myself to give up
    his society altogether. I even went so far as to humor some of his less
    reprehensible propensities; and there were times when I found myself
    lauding his wicked jokes, as epicures do mustard, with tears in my eyes:&mdash;so
    profoundly did it grieve me to hear his evil talk.
</p>
<p>
    One fine day, having strolled out together, arm in arm, our route led us
    in the direction of a river. There was a bridge, and we resolved to cross
    it. It was roofed over, by way of protection from the weather, and the
    archway, having but few windows, was thus very uncomfortably dark. As we
    entered the passage, the contrast between the external glare and the
    interior gloom struck heavily upon my spirits. Not so upon those of the
    unhappy Dammit, who offered to bet the Devil his head that I was hipped.
    He seemed to be in an unusual good humor. He was excessively lively&mdash;so
    much so that I entertained I know not what of uneasy suspicion. It is not
    impossible that he was affected with the transcendentals. I am not well
    enough versed, however, in the diagnosis of this disease to speak with
    decision upon the point; and unhappily there were none of my friends of
    the &ldquo;Dial&rdquo; present. I suggest the idea, nevertheless, because of a certain
    species of austere Merry-Andrewism which seemed to beset my poor friend,
    and caused him to make quite a Tom-Fool of himself. Nothing would serve
    him but wriggling and skipping about under and over every thing that came
    in his way; now shouting out, and now lisping out, all manner of odd
    little and big words, yet preserving the gravest face in the world all the
    time. I really could not make up my mind whether to kick or to pity him.
    At length, having passed nearly across the bridge, we approached the
    termination of the footway, when our progress was impeded by a turnstile
    of some height. Through this I made my way quietly, pushing it around as
    usual. But this turn would not serve the turn of Mr. Dammit. He insisted
    upon leaping the stile, and said he could cut a pigeon-wing over it in the
    air. Now this, conscientiously speaking, I did not think he could do. The
    best pigeon-winger over all kinds of style was my friend Mr. Carlyle, and
    as I knew he could not do it, I would not believe that it could be done by
    Toby Dammit. I therefore told him, in so many words, that he was a
    braggadocio, and could not do what he said. For this I had reason to be
    sorry afterward;&mdash;for he straightway offered to bet the Devil his
    head that he could.
</p>
<p>
    I was about to reply, notwithstanding my previous resolutions, with some
    remonstrance against his impiety, when I heard, close at my elbow, a
    slight cough, which sounded very much like the ejaculation &ldquo;ahem!&rdquo; I
    started, and looked about me in surprise. My glance at length fell into a
    nook of the frame&mdash;work of the bridge, and upon the figure of a
    little lame old gentleman of venerable aspect. Nothing could be more
    reverend than his whole appearance; for he not only had on a full suit of
    black, but his shirt was perfectly clean and the collar turned very neatly
    down over a white cravat, while his hair was parted in front like a
    girl&rsquo;s. His hands were clasped pensively together over his stomach, and
    his two eyes were carefully rolled up into the top of his head.
</p>
<p>
    Upon observing him more closely, I perceived that he wore a black silk
    apron over his small-clothes; and this was a thing which I thought very
    odd. Before I had time to make any remark, however, upon so singular a
    circumstance, he interrupted me with a second &ldquo;ahem!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    To this observation I was not immediately prepared to reply. The fact is,
    remarks of this laconic nature are nearly unanswerable. I have known a
    Quarterly Review non-plussed by the word &ldquo;Fudge!&rdquo; I am not ashamed to say,
    therefore, that I turned to Mr. Dammit for assistance.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Dammit,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;what are you about? don&rsquo;t you hear?&mdash;the gentleman
    says &lsquo;ahem!&rsquo;&rdquo; I looked sternly at my friend while I thus addressed him;
    for, to say the truth, I felt particularly puzzled, and when a man is
    particularly puzzled he must knit his brows and look savage, or else he is
    pretty sure to look like a fool.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Dammit,&rdquo; observed I&mdash;although this sounded very much like an oath,
    than which nothing was further from my thoughts&mdash;&ldquo;Dammit,&rdquo; I
    suggested&mdash;&ldquo;the gentleman says &lsquo;ahem!&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    I do not attempt to defend my remark on the score of profundity; I did not
    think it profound myself; but I have noticed that the effect of our
    speeches is not always proportionate with their importance in our own
    eyes; and if I had shot Mr. D. through and through with a Paixhan bomb, or
    knocked him in the head with the &ldquo;Poets and Poetry of America,&rdquo; he could
    hardly have been more discomfited than when I addressed him with those
    simple words: &ldquo;Dammit, what are you about?&mdash;don&rsquo;t you hear?&mdash;the
    gentleman says &lsquo;ahem!&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t say so?&rdquo; gasped he at length, after turning more colors than a
    pirate runs up, one after the other, when chased by a man-of-war. &ldquo;Are you
    quite sure he said that? Well, at all events I am in for it now, and may
    as well put a bold face upon the matter. Here goes, then&mdash;ahem!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    At this the little old gentleman seemed pleased&mdash;God only knows why.
    He left his station at the nook of the bridge, limped forward with a
    gracious air, took Dammit by the hand and shook it cordially, looking all
    the while straight up in his face with an air of the most unadulterated
    benignity which it is possible for the mind of man to imagine.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I am quite sure you will win it, Dammit,&rdquo; said he, with the frankest of
    all smiles, &ldquo;but we are obliged to have a trial, you know, for the sake of
    mere form.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Ahem!&rdquo; replied my friend, taking off his coat, with a deep sigh, tying a
    pocket-handkerchief around his waist, and producing an unaccountable
    alteration in his countenance by twisting up his eyes and bringing down
    the corners of his mouth&mdash;&ldquo;ahem!&rdquo; And &ldquo;ahem!&rdquo; said he again, after a
    pause; and not another word more than &ldquo;ahem!&rdquo; did I ever know him to say
    after that. &ldquo;Aha!&rdquo; thought I, without expressing myself aloud&mdash;&ldquo;this
    is quite a remarkable silence on the part of Toby Dammit, and is no doubt
    a consequence of his verbosity upon a previous occasion. One extreme
    induces another. I wonder if he has forgotten the many unanswerable
    questions which he propounded to me so fluently on the day when I gave him
    my last lecture? At all events, he is cured of the transcendentals.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Ahem!&rdquo; here replied Toby, just as if he had been reading my thoughts, and
    looking like a very old sheep in a revery.
</p>
<p>
    The old gentleman now took him by the arm, and led him more into the shade
    of the bridge&mdash;a few paces back from the turnstile. &ldquo;My good fellow,&rdquo;
    said he, &ldquo;I make it a point of conscience to allow you this much run. Wait
    here, till I take my place by the stile, so that I may see whether you go
    over it handsomely, and transcendentally, and don&rsquo;t omit any flourishes of
    the pigeon-wing. A mere form, you know. I will say &lsquo;one, two, three, and
    away.&rsquo; Mind you, start at the word &lsquo;away&rsquo;&rdquo; Here he took his position by
    the stile, paused a moment as if in profound reflection, then looked up
    and, I thought, smiled very slightly, then tightened the strings of his
    apron, then took a long look at Dammit, and finally gave the word as
    agreed upon-
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
            <i>One&mdash;two&mdash;three&mdash;and&mdash;away!</i>
</pre>
<p>
    Punctually at the word &ldquo;away,&rdquo; my poor friend set off in a strong gallop.
    The stile was not very high, like Mr. Lord&rsquo;s&mdash;nor yet very low, like
    that of Mr. Lord&rsquo;s reviewers, but upon the whole I made sure that he would
    clear it. And then what if he did not?&mdash;ah, that was the question&mdash;what
    if he did not? &ldquo;What right,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;had the old gentleman to make any
    other gentleman jump? The little old dot-and-carry-one! who is he? If he
    asks me to jump, I won&rsquo;t do it, that&rsquo;s flat, and I don&rsquo;t care who the
    devil he is.&rdquo; The bridge, as I say, was arched and covered in, in a very
    ridiculous manner, and there was a most uncomfortable echo about it at all
    times&mdash;an echo which I never before so particularly observed as when
    I uttered the four last words of my remark.
</p>
<p>
    But what I said, or what I thought, or what I heard, occupied only an
    instant. In less than five seconds from his starting, my poor Toby had
    taken the leap. I saw him run nimbly, and spring grandly from the floor of
    the bridge, cutting the most awful flourishes with his legs as he went up.
    I saw him high in the air, pigeon-winging it to admiration just over the
    top of the stile; and of course I thought it an unusually singular thing
    that he did not continue to go over. But the whole leap was the affair of
    a moment, and, before I had a chance to make any profound reflections,
    down came Mr. Dammit on the flat of his back, on the same side of the
    stile from which he had started. At the same instant I saw the old
    gentleman limping off at the top of his speed, having caught and wrapt up
    in his apron something that fell heavily into it from the darkness of the
    arch just over the turnstile. At all this I was much astonished; but I had
    no leisure to think, for Dammit lay particularly still, and I concluded
    that his feelings had been hurt, and that he stood in need of my
    assistance. I hurried up to him and found that he had received what might
    be termed a serious injury. The truth is, he had been deprived of his
    head, which after a close search I could not find anywhere; so I
    determined to take him home and send for the homoeopathists. In the
    meantime a thought struck me, and I threw open an adjacent window of the
    bridge, when the sad truth flashed upon me at once. About five feet just
    above the top of the turnstile, and crossing the arch of the foot-path so
    as to constitute a brace, there extended a flat iron bar, lying with its
    breadth horizontally, and forming one of a series that served to
    strengthen the structure throughout its extent. With the edge of this
    brace it appeared evident that the neck of my unfortunate friend had come
    precisely in contact.
</p>
<p>
    He did not long survive his terrible loss. The homoeopathists did not give
    him little enough physic, and what little they did give him he hesitated
    to take. So in the end he grew worse, and at length died, a lesson to all
    riotous livers. I bedewed his grave with my tears, worked a bar sinister
    on his family escutcheon, and, for the general expenses of his funeral,
    sent in my very moderate bill to the transcendentalists. The scoundrels
    refused to pay it, so I had Mr. Dammit dug up at once, and sold him for
    dog&rsquo;s meat.
</p>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THOU ART THE MAN
</h2>
<p>
    I will now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound to
    you&mdash;as I alone can&mdash;the secret of the enginery that effected
    the Rattleborough miracle&mdash;the one, the true, the admitted, the
    undisputed, the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to
    infidelity among the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodoxy of the
    grandames all the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.
</p>
<p>
    This event&mdash;which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of
    unsuitable levity&mdash;occurred in the summer of 18&mdash;. Mr. Barnabas
    Shuttleworthy&mdash;one of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of
    the borough&mdash;had been missing for several days under circumstances
    which gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out
    from Rattleborough very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the
    avowed intention of proceeding to the city of-, about fifteen miles
    distant, and of returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his
    departure, however, his horse returned without him, and without the
    saddle-bags which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal
    was wounded, too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave
    rise to much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and when it was
    found, on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the
    whole borough arose en masse to go and look for his body.
</p>
<p>
    The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom
    friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy&mdash;a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was
    universally called, &ldquo;Charley Goodfellow,&rdquo; or &ldquo;Old Charley Goodfellow.&rdquo;
    Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the
    name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never
    yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there
    never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly, honest,
    good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did
    you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always straight in the
    face, as much as to say: &ldquo;I have a clear conscience myself, am afraid of
    no man, and am altogether above doing a mean action.&rdquo; And thus all the
    hearty, careless, &ldquo;walking gentlemen&rdquo; of the stage are very certain to be
    called Charles.
</p>
<p>
    Now, &ldquo;Old Charley Goodfellow,&rdquo; although he had been in Rattleborough not
    longer than six months or thereabouts, and although nobody knew any thing
    about him before he came to settle in the neighborhood, had experienced no
    difficulty in the world in making the acquaintance of all the respectable
    people in the borough. Not a man of them but would have taken his bare
    word for a thousand at any moment; and as for the women, there is no
    saying what they would not have done to oblige him. And all this came of
    his having been christened Charles, and of his possessing, in consequence,
    that ingenuous face which is proverbially the very &ldquo;best letter of
    recommendation.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most respectable
    and, undoubtedly, he was the most wealthy man in Rattleborough, while &ldquo;Old
    Charley Goodfellow&rdquo; was upon as intimate terms with him as if he had been
    his own brother. The two old gentlemen were next-door neighbours, and,
    although Mr. Shuttleworthy seldom, if ever, visited &ldquo;Old Charley,&rdquo; and
    never was known to take a meal in his house, still this did not prevent
    the two friends from being exceedingly intimate, as I have just observed;
    for &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo; never let a day pass without stepping in three or four
    times to see how his neighbour came on, and very often he would stay to
    breakfast or tea, and almost always to dinner, and then the amount of wine
    that was made way with by the two cronies at a sitting, it would really be
    a difficult thing to ascertain. &ldquo;Old Charleys&rdquo; favorite beverage was
    Chateau-Margaux, and it appeared to do Mr. Shuttleworthy&rsquo;s heart good to
    see the old fellow swallow it, as he did, quart after quart; so that, one
    day, when the wine was in and the wit as a natural consequence, somewhat
    out, he said to his crony, as he slapped him upon the back&mdash;&ldquo;I tell
    you what it is, &lsquo;Old Charley,&rsquo; you are, by all odds, the heartiest old
    fellow I ever came across in all my born days; and, since you love to
    guzzle the wine at that fashion, I&rsquo;ll be darned if I don&rsquo;t have to make
    thee a present of a big box of the Chateau-Margaux. Od rot me,&rdquo;&mdash;(Mr.
    Shuttleworthy had a sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went beyond
    &ldquo;Od rot me,&rdquo; or &ldquo;By gosh,&rdquo; or &ldquo;By the jolly golly,&rdquo;)&mdash;&ldquo;Od rot me,&rdquo;
    says he, &ldquo;if I don&rsquo;t send an order to town this very afternoon for a
    double box of the best that can be got, and I&rsquo;ll make ye a present of it,
    I will!&mdash;ye needn&rsquo;t say a word now&mdash;I will, I tell ye, and
    there&rsquo;s an end of it; so look out for it&mdash;it will come to hand some
    of these fine days, precisely when ye are looking for it the least!&rdquo; I
    mention this little bit of liberality on the part of Mr. Shuttleworthy,
    just by way of showing you how very intimate an understanding existed
    between the two friends.
</p>
<p>
    Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to be fairly
    understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play, I never saw any
    one so profoundly affected as &ldquo;Old Charley Goodfellow.&rdquo; When he first
    heard that the horse had come home without his master, and without his
    master&rsquo;s saddle-bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot, that had gone
    clean through and through the poor animal&rsquo;s chest without quite killing
    him; when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the missing man had
    been his own dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all over as if
    he had had a fit of the ague.
</p>
<p>
    At first he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do any thing
    at all, or to concert upon any plan of action; so that for a long time he
    endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy&rsquo;s other friends from making a
    stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait awhile&mdash;say for a
    week or two, or a month, or two&mdash;to see if something wouldn&rsquo;t turn
    up, or if Mr. Shuttleworthy wouldn&rsquo;t come in the natural way, and explain
    his reasons for sending his horse on before. I dare say you have often
    observed this disposition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who
    are labouring under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to
    be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of any thing like action,
    and like nothing in the world so well as to lie quietly in bed and &ldquo;nurse
    their grief,&rdquo; as the old ladies express it&mdash;that is to say, ruminate
    over the trouble.
</p>
<p>
    The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an opinion of the wisdom
    and discretion of &ldquo;Old Charley,&rdquo; that the greater part of them felt
    disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in the business &ldquo;until
    something should turn up,&rdrdquo; as the honest old gentleman worded it; and I
    believe that, after all this would have been the general determination,
    but for the very suspicious interference of Mr. Shuttleworthy&rsquo;s nephew, a
    young man of very dissipated habits, and otherwise of rather bad
    character. This nephew, whose name was Pennifeather, would listen to
    nothing like reason in the matter of &ldquo;lying quiet,&rdquo; but insisted upon
    making immediate search for the &ldquo;corpse of the murdered man.&rdquo;&mdash;This
    was the expression he employed; and Mr. Goodfellow acutely remarked at the
    time, that it was &ldquo;a singular expression, to say no more.&rdquo; This remark of
    &lsquo;Old Charley&rsquo;s,&rsquo; too, had great effect upon the crowd; and one of the
    party was heard to ask, very impressively, &ldquo;how it happened that young Mr.
    Pennifeather was so intimately cognizant of all the circumstances
    connected with his wealthy uncle&rsquo;s disappearance, as to feel authorized to
    assert, distinctly and unequivocally, that his uncle was &lsquo;a murdered
    man.&rsquo;&rdquo; Hereupon some little squibbing and bickering occurred among various
    members of the crowd, and especially between &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo; and Mr.
    Pennifeather&mdash;although this latter occurrence was, indeed, by no
    means a novelty, for no good will had subsisted between the parties for
    the last three or four months; and matters had even gone so far that Mr.
    Pennifeather had actually knocked down his uncles friend for some alleged
    excess of liberty that the latter had taken in the uncle&rsquo;s house, of which
    the nephew was an inmate. Upon this occasion &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo; is said to have
    behaved with exemplary moderation and Christian charity. He arose from the
    blow, adjusted his clothes, and made no attempt at retaliation at all&mdash;merely
    muttering a few words about &ldquo;taking summary vengeance at the first
    convenient opportunity,&rdquo;&mdash;a natural and very justifiable ebullition
    of anger, which meant nothing, however, and, beyond doubt, was no sooner
    given vent to than forgotten.
</p>
<p>
    However these matters may be (which have no reference to the point now at
    issue), it is quite certain that the people of Rattleborough, principally
    through the persuasion of Mr. Pennifeather, came at length to the
    determination of dispersion over the adjacent country in search of the
    missing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they came to this determination in the
    first instance. After it had been fully resolved that a search should be
    made, it was considered almost a matter of course that the seekers should
    disperse&mdash;that is to say, distribute themselves in parties&mdash;for
    the more thorough examination of the region round about. I forget,
    however, by what ingenious train of reasoning it was that &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo;
    finally convinced the assembly that this was the most injudicious plan
    that could be pursued. Convince them, however, he did&mdash;all except Mr.
    Pennifeather, and, in the end, it was arranged that a search should be
    instituted, carefully and very thoroughly, by the burghers en masse, &ldquo;Old
    Charley&rdquo; himself leading the way.
</p>
<p>
    As for the matter of that, there could have been no better pioneer than
    &ldquo;Old Charley,&rdquo; whom everybody knew to have the eye of a lynx; but,
    although he led them into all manner of out-of-the-way holes and corners,
    by routes that nobody had ever suspected of existing in the neighbourhood,
    and although the search was incessantly kept up day and night for nearly a
    week, still no trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be discovered. When I say
    no trace, however, I must not be understood to speak literally, for trace,
    to some extent, there certainly was. The poor gentleman had been tracked,
    by his horses shoes (which were peculiar), to a spot about three miles to
    the east of the borough, on the main road leading to the city. Here the
    track made off into a by-path through a piece of woodland&mdash;the path
    coming out again into the main road, and cutting off about half a mile of
    the regular distance. Following the shoe-marks down this lane, the party
    came at length to a pool of stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles,
    to the right of the lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of the track
    was lost sight of. It appeared, however, that a struggle of some nature
    had here taken place, and it seemed as if some large and heavy body, much
    larger and heavier than a man, had been drawn from the by-path to the
    pool. This latter was carefully dragged twice, but nothing was found; and
    the party was upon the point of going away, in despair of coming to any
    result, when Providence suggested to Mr. Goodfellow the expediency of
    draining the water off altogether. This project was received with cheers,
    and many high compliments to &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo; upon his sagacity and
    consideration. As many of the burghers had brought spades with them,
    supposing that they might possibly be called upon to disinter a corpse,
    the drain was easily and speedily effected; and no sooner was the bottom
    visible, than right in the middle of the mud that remained was discovered
    a black silk velvet waistcoat, which nearly every one present immediately
    recognized as the property of Mr. Pennifeather. This waistcoat was much
    torn and stained with blood, and there were several persons among the
    party who had a distinct remembrance of its having been worn by its owner
    on the very morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy&rsquo;s departure for the city; while
    there were others, again, ready to testify upon oath, if required, that
    Mr. P. did not wear the garment in question at any period during the
    remainder of that memorable day, nor could any one be found to say that he
    had seen it upon Mr. P.&lsquo;s person at any period at all subsequent to Mr.
    Shuttleworthy&rsquo;s disappearance.
</p>
<p>
    Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and it was
    observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspicions which were
    excited against him, that he grew exceedingly pale, and when asked what he
    had to say for himself, was utterly incapable of saying a word. Hereupon,
    the few friends his riotous mode of living had left him, deserted him at
    once to a man, and were even more clamorous than his ancient and avowed
    enemies for his instantaneous arrest. But, on the other hand, the
    magnanimity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the more brilliant
    lustre through contrast. He made a warm and intensely eloquent defence of
    Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than once to his own sincere
    forgiveness of that wild young gentleman&mdash;&ldquo;the heir of the worthy Mr.
    Shuttleworthy,&rdquo;&mdash;for the insult which he (the young gentleman) had,
    no doubt in the heat of passion, thought proper to put upon him (Mr.
    Goodfellow). &ldquo;He forgave him for it,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;from the very bottom of
    his heart; and for himself (Mr. Goodfellow), so far from pushing the
    suspicious circumstances to extremity, which he was sorry to say, really
    had arisen against Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr. Goodfellow) would make every
    exertion in his power, would employ all the little eloquence in his
    possession to&mdash;to&mdash;to&mdash;soften down, as much as he could
    conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really exceedingly
    perplexing piece of business.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer in this strain, very much
    to the credit both of his head and of his heart; but your warm-hearted
    people are seldom apposite in their observations&mdash;they run into all
    sorts of blunders, contre-temps and mal apropos-isms, in the
    hot-headedness of their zeal to serve a friend&mdash;thus, often with the
    kindest intentions in the world, doing infinitely more to prejudice his
    cause than to advance it.
</p>
<p>
    So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the eloquence of &ldquo;Old
    Charley&rdquo;; for, although he laboured earnestly in behalf of the suspected,
    yet it so happened, somehow or other, that every syllable he uttered of
    which the direct but unwitting tendency was not to exalt the speaker in
    the good opinion of his audience, had the effect to deepen the suspicion
    already attached to the individual whose cause he pleaded, and to arouse
    against him the fury of the mob.
</p>
<p>
    One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator was his
    allusion to the suspected as &ldquo;the heir of the worthy old gentleman Mr.
    Shuttleworthy.&rdquo; The people had really never thought of this before. They
    had only remembered certain threats of disinheritance uttered a year or
    two previously by the uncle (who had no living relative except the
    nephew), and they had, therefore, always looked upon this disinheritance
    as a matter that was settled&mdash;so single-minded a race of beings were
    the Rattleburghers; but the remark of &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo; brought them at once
    to a consideration of this point, and thus gave them to see the
    possibility of the threats having been nothing more than a threat. And
    straightway hereupon, arose the natural question of cui bono?&mdash;a
    question that tended even more than the waistcoat to fasten the terrible
    crime upon the young man. And here, lest I may be misunderstood, permit me
    to digress for one moment merely to observe that the exceedingly brief and
    simple Latin phrase which I have employed, is invariably mistranslated and
    misconceived. &ldquo;Cui bono?&rdquo; in all the crack novels and elsewhere,&mdash;in
    those of Mrs. Gore, for example, (the author of &ldquo;Cecil,&rdquo;) a lady who
    quotes all tongues from the Chaldaean to Chickasaw, and is helped to her
    learning, &ldquo;as needed,&rdquo; upon a systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford,&mdash;in
    all the crack novels, I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of
    Bulwer and Dickens to those of Turnapenny and Ainsworth, the two little
    Latin words cui bono are rendered &ldquo;to what purpose?&rdquo; or, (as if quo bono,)
    &ldquo;to what good.&rdquo; Their true meaning, nevertheless, is &ldquo;for whose
    advantage.&rdquo; Cui, to whom; bono, is it for a benefit. It is a purely legal
    phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we have now under
    consideration, where the probability of the doer of a deed hinges upon the
    probability of the benefit accruing to this individual or to that from the
    deed&rsquo;s accomplishment. Now in the present instance, the question cui bono?
    very pointedly implicated Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had threatened him,
    after making a will in his favour, with disinheritance. But the threat had
    not been actually kept; the original will, it appeared, had not been
    altered. Had it been altered, the only supposable motive for murder on the
    part of the suspected would have been the ordinary one of revenge; and
    even this would have been counteracted by the hope of reinstation into the
    good graces of the uncle. But the will being unaltered, while the threat
    to alter remained suspended over the nephew&rsquo;s head, there appears at once
    the very strongest possible inducement for the atrocity, and so concluded,
    very sagaciously, the worthy citizens of the borough of Rattle.
</p>
<p>
    Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and the crowd,
    after some further search, proceeded homeward, having him in custody. On
    the route, however, another circumstance occurred tending to confirm the
    suspicion entertained. Mr. Goodfellow, whose zeal led him to be always a
    little in advance of the party, was seen suddenly to run forward a few
    paces, stoop, and then apparently to pick up some small object from the
    grass. Having quickly examined it he was observed, too, to make a sort of
    half attempt at concealing it in his coat pocket; but this action was
    noticed, as I say, and consequently prevented, when the object picked up
    was found to be a Spanish knife which a dozen persons at once recognized
    as belonging to Mr. Pennifeather. Moreover, his initials were engraved
    upon the handle. The blade of this knife was open and bloody.
</p>
<p>
    No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and immediately upon
    reaching Rattleborough he was taken before a magistrate for examination.
</p>
<p>
    Here matters again took a most unfavourable turn. The prisoner, being
    questioned as to his whereabouts on the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy&rsquo;s
    disappearance, had absolutely the audacity to acknowledge that on that
    very morning he had been out with his rifle deer-stalking, in the
    immediate neighbourhood of the pool where the blood-stained waistcoat had
    been discovered through the sagacity of Mr. Goodfellow.
</p>
<p>
    This latter now came forward, and, with tears in his eyes, asked
    permission to be examined. He said that a stern sense of the duty he owed
    his Maker, not less than his fellow-men, would permit him no longer to
    remain silent. Hitherto, the sincerest affection for the young man
    (notwithstanding the latter&rsquo;s ill-treatment of himself, Mr. Goodfellow)
    had induced him to make every hypothesis which imagination could suggest,
    by way of endeavoring to account for what appeared suspicious in the
    circumstances that told so seriously against Mr. Pennifeather, but these
    circumstances were now altogether too convincing&mdash;too damning, he
    would hesitate no longer&mdash;he would tell all he knew, although his
    heart (Mr. Goodfellow&rsquo;s) should absolutely burst asunder in the effort. He
    then went on to state that, on the afternoon of the day previous to Mr.
    Shuttleworthy&rsquo;s departure for the city, that worthy old gentleman had
    mentioned to his nephew, in his hearing (Mr. Goodfellow&rsquo;s), that his
    object in going to town on the morrow was to make a deposit of an
    unusually large sum of money in the &ldquo;Farmers and Mechanics&rsquo; Bank,&rdquo; and
    that, then and there, the said Mr. Shuttleworthy had distinctly avowed to
    the said nephew his irrevocable determination of rescinding the will
    originally made, and of cutting him off with a shilling. He (the witness)
    now solemnly called upon the accused to state whether what he (the
    witness) had just stated was or was not the truth in every substantial
    particular. Much to the astonishment of every one present, Mr.
    Pennifeather frankly admitted that it was.
</p>
<p>
    The magistrate now considered it his duty to send a couple of constables
    to search the chamber of the accused in the house of his uncle. From this
    search they almost immediately returned with the well-known steel-bound,
    russet leather pocket-book which the old gentleman had been in the habit
    of carrying for years. Its valuable contents, however, had been
    abstracted, and the magistrate in vain endeavored to extort from the
    prisoner the use which had been made of them, or the place of their
    concealment. Indeed, he obstinately denied all knowledge of the matter.
    The constables, also, discovered, between the bed and sacking of the
    unhappy man, a shirt and neck-handkerchief both marked with the initials
    of his name, and both hideously besmeared with the blood of the victim.
</p>
<p>
    At this juncture, it was announced that the horse of the murdered man had
    just expired in the stable from the effects of the wound he had received,
    and it was proposed by Mr. Goodfellow that a post mortem examination of
    the beast should be immediately made, with the view, if possible, of
    discovering the ball. This was accordingly done; and, as if to demonstrate
    beyond a question the guilt of the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after
    considerable searching in the cavity of the chest was enabled to detect
    and to pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary size, which, upon trial,
    was found to be exactly adapted to the bore of Mr. Pennifeather&rsquo;s rifle,
    while it was far too large for that of any other person in the borough or
    its vicinity. To render the matter even surer yet, however, this bullet
    was discovered to have a flaw or seam at right angles to the usual suture,
    and upon examination, this seam corresponded precisely with an accidental
    ridge or elevation in a pair of moulds acknowledged by the accused himself
    to be his own property. Upon finding of this bullet, the examining
    magistrate refused to listen to any farther testimony, and immediately
    committed the prisoner for trial-declining resolutely to take any bail in
    the case, although against this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly
    remonstrated, and offered to become surety in whatever amount might be
    required. This generosity on the part of &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo; was only in
    accordance with the whole tenour of his amiable and chivalrous conduct
    during the entire period of his sojourn in the borough of Rattle. In the
    present instance the worthy man was so entirely carried away by the
    excessive warmth of his sympathy, that he seemed to have quite forgotten,
    when he offered to go bail for his young friend, that he himself (Mr.
    Goodfellow) did not possess a single dollar&rsquo;s worth of property upon the
    face of the earth.
</p>
<p>
    The result of the committal may be readily foreseen. Mr. Pennifeather,
    amid the loud execrations of all Rattleborough, was brought to trial at
    the next criminal sessions, when the chain of circumstantial evidence
    (strengthened as it was by some additional damning facts, which Mr.
    Goodfellow&rsquo;s sensitive conscientiousness forbade him to withhold from the
    court) was considered so unbroken and so thoroughly conclusive, that the
    jury, without leaving their seats, returned an immediate verdict of
    &ldquo;Guilty of murder in the first degree.&rdquo; Soon afterward the unhappy wretch
    received sentence of death, and was remanded to the county jail to await
    the inexorable vengeance of the law.
</p>
<p>
    In the meantime, the noble behavior of &ldquo;Old Charley Goodfellow,&rdquo; had
    doubly endeared him to the honest citizens of the borough. He became ten
    times a greater favorite than ever, and, as a natural result of the
    hospitality with which he was treated, he relaxed, as it were, perforce,
    the extremely parsimonious habits which his poverty had hitherto impelled
    him to observe, and very frequently had little reunions at his own house,
    when wit and jollity reigned supreme-dampened a little, of course, by the
    occasional remembrance of the untoward and melancholy fate which impended
    over the nephew of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous host.
</p>
<p>
    One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably surprised at
    the receipt of the following letter:-
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 Charles Goodfellow, Esq., Rattleborough
 From H.F.B. &amp; Co.
 Chat. Mar. A&mdash;No. 1.&mdash;6 doz. bottles (1/2 Gross)

 &ldquo;Charles Goodfellow, Esquire.

 &ldquo;Dear Sir&mdash;In conformity with an order transmitted to our firm about
 two months since, by our esteemed correspondent, Mr. Barnabus
 Shuttleworthy, we have the honor of forwarding this morning, to your
 address, a double box of Chateau-Margaux of the antelope brand, violet
 seal. Box numbered and marked as per margin.

 &ldquo;We remain, sir,
         &ldquo;Your most ob&rsquo;nt ser&rsquo;ts,
                 &ldquo;HOGGS, FROGS, BOGS, &amp; CO.

 &ldquo;City of&mdash;, June 21, 18&mdash;.

 &ldquo;P.S.&mdash;The box will reach you by wagon, on the day after your receipt
 of this letter. Our respects to Mr. Shuttleworthy.

                  &ldquo;H., F., B., &amp; CO.&rdquo;
 </pre>
<p>
    The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr.
    Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the promised
    Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore, looked upon it now as a sort of
    especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was highly
    delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his joy invited a large
    party of friends to a petit souper on the morrow, for the purpose of
    broaching the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy&rsquo;s present. Not that he said any
    thing about &ldquo;the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy&rdquo; when he issued the
    invitations. The fact is, he thought much and concluded to say nothing at
    all. He did not mention to any one&mdash;if I remember aright&mdash;that
    he had received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his friends
    to come and help him drink some, of a remarkable fine quality and rich
    flavour, that he had ordered up from the city a couple of months ago, and
    of which he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I have often puzzled
    myself to imagine why it was that &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo; came to the conclusion to
    say nothing about having received the wine from his old friend, but I
    could never precisely understand his reason for the silence, although he
    had some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no doubt.
</p>
<p>
    The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly
    respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow&rsquo;s house. Indeed, half the borough
    was there,&mdash;I myself among the number,&mdash;but, much to the
    vexation of the host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a late
    hour, and when the sumptuous supper supplied by &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo; had been
    done very ample justice by the guests. It came at length, however,&mdash;a
    monstrously big box of it there was, too&mdash;and as the whole party were
    in excessively good humor, it was decided, nem. con., that it should be
    lifted upon the table and its contents disembowelled forthwith.
</p>
<p>
    No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice we had
    the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and glasses, not a
    few of which were demolished in the scuffle. &ldquo;Old Charley,&rdquo; who was pretty
    much intoxicated, and excessively red in the face, now took a seat, with
    an air of mock dignity, at the head of the board, and thumped furiously
    upon it with a decanter, calling upon the company to keep order &ldquo;during
    the ceremony of disinterring the treasure.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as very
    often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence ensued.
    Being then requested to force open the lid, I complied, of course, &ldquo;with
    an infinite deal of pleasure.&rdquo; I inserted a chisel, and giving it a few
    slight taps with a hammer, the top of the box flew suddenly off, and at
    the same instant, there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing
    the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse of the murdered
    Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a few seconds, fixedly and
    sorrowfully, with its decaying and lack-lustre eyes, full into the
    countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly, but clearly and
    impressively, the words&mdash;&ldquo;Thou art the man!&rdquo; and then, falling over
    the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied, stretched out its limbs
    quiveringly upon the table.
</p>
<p>
    The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for the
    doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men in the
    room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild,
    shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr. Goodfellow. If
    I live a thousand years, I can never forget the more than mortal agony
    which was depicted in that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with
    triumph and wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue of
    marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to be
    turned inward and absorbed in the contemplation of his own miserable,
    murderous soul. At length their expression appeared to flash suddenly out
    into the external world, when, with a quick leap, he sprang from his
    chair, and falling heavily with his head and shoulders upon the table, and
    in contact with the corpse, poured out rapidly and vehemently a detailed
    confession of the hideous crime for which Mr. Pennifeather was then
    imprisoned and doomed to die.
</p>
<p>
    What he recounted was in substance this:&mdash;He followed his victim to
    the vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol; despatched
    its rider with the butt end; possessed himself of the pocket-book, and,
    supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great labour to the brambles by
    the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and
    thus bore it to a secure place of concealment a long distance off through
    the woods.
</p>
<p>
    The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet, had been placed by
    himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr.
    Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained
    handkerchief and shirt.
</p>
<p>
    Towards the end of the blood-churning recital the words of the guilty
    wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted, he
    arose, staggered backward from the table, and fell-dead.
</p>
<hr />
<p>
    The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, although
    efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow&rsquo;s excess of frankness had
    disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the first. I was present when
    Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression which then
    arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me that his threat
    of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus prepared
    to view the manoeuvering of &ldquo;Old Charley&rdquo; in a very different light from
    that in which it was regarded by the good citizens of Rattleborough. I saw
    at once that all the criminating discoveries arose, either directly or
    indirectly, from himself. But the fact which clearly opened my eyes to the
    true state of the case, was the affair of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in
    the carcass of the horse. I had not forgotten, although the Rattleburghers
    had, that there was a hole where the ball had entered the horse, and
    another where it went out. If it were found in the animal then, after
    having made its exit, I saw clearly that it must have been deposited by
    the person who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed the
    idea suggested by the bullet; for the blood on examination proved to be
    capital claret, and no more. When I came to think of these things, and
    also of the late increase of liberality and expenditure on the part of Mr.
    Goodfellow, I entertained a suspicion which was none the less strong
    because I kept it altogether to myself.
</p>
<p>
    In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse of
    Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as
    divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his
    party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry
    well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the
    bottom, I discovered what I sought.
</p>
<p>
    Now it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two
    cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the
    promise of a box of Chateaux-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured a
    stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse, and
    deposited the latter in an old wine box-taking care so to double the body
    up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press
    forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with nails; and I
    anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were removed, the top
    would fly off and the body up.
</p>
<p>
    Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered, and addressed it as
    already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine merchants
    with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my servant to
    wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow&rsquo;s door, in a barrow, at a given signal
    from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to speak, I
    confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their effect, I
    counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch.
</p>
<p>
    I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was
    released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by
    the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever
    afterward a new life.
</p>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    WHY THE LITTLE FRENCHMAN WEARS HIS HAND IN A SLING
</h2>
<p>
    IT&rsquo;S on my visiting cards sure enough (and it&rsquo;s them that&rsquo;s all o&rsquo; pink
    satin paper) that inny gintleman that plases may behould the intheristhin
    words, &ldquo;Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison, Barronitt, 39 Southampton Row, Russell
    Square, Parrish o&rsquo; Bloomsbury.&rdquo; And shud ye be wantin&rsquo; to diskiver who is
    the pink of purliteness quite, and the laider of the hot tun in the houl
    city o&rsquo; Lonon&mdash;why it&rsquo;s jist mesilf. And fait that same is no wonder
    at all at all (so be plased to stop curlin your nose), for every inch o&rsquo;
    the six wakes that I&rsquo;ve been a gintleman, and left aff wid the
    bogthrothing to take up wid the Barronissy, it&rsquo;s Pathrick that&rsquo;s been
    living like a houly imperor, and gitting the iddication and the graces.
    Och! and wouldn&rsquo;t it be a blessed thing for your spirrits if ye cud lay
    your two peepers jist, upon Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison, Barronitt, when he
    is all riddy drissed for the hopperer, or stipping into the Brisky for the
    drive into the Hyde Park. But it&rsquo;s the illigant big figgur that I ave, for
    the rason o&rsquo; which all the ladies fall in love wid me. Isn&rsquo;t it my own
    swate silf now that&rsquo;ll missure the six fut, and the three inches more nor
    that, in me stockins, and that am excadingly will proportioned all over to
    match? And it is ralelly more than three fut and a bit that there is, inny
    how, of the little ould furrener Frinchman that lives jist over the way,
    and that&rsquo;s a oggling and a goggling the houl day, (and bad luck to him,)
    at the purty widdy Misthress Tracle that&rsquo;s my own nixt-door neighbor, (God
    bliss her!) and a most particuller frind and acquaintance? You percave the
    little spalpeen is summat down in the mouth, and wears his lift hand in a
    sling, and it&rsquo;s for that same thing, by yur lave, that I&rsquo;m going to give
    you the good rason.
</p>
<p>
    The truth of the houl matter is jist simple enough; for the very first day
    that I com&rsquo;d from Connaught, and showd my swate little silf in the strait
    to the widdy, who was looking through the windy, it was a gone case
    althegither with the heart o&rsquo; the purty Misthress Tracle. I percaved it,
    ye see, all at once, and no mistake, and that&rsquo;s God&rsquo;s truth. First of all
    it was up wid the windy in a jiffy, and thin she threw open her two
    peepers to the itmost, and thin it was a little gould spy-glass that she
    clapped tight to one o&rsquo; them and divil may burn me if it didn&rsquo;t spake to
    me as plain as a peeper cud spake, and says it, through the spy-glass:
    &ldquo;Och! the tip o&rsquo; the mornin&rsquo; to ye, Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison, Barronitt,
    mavourneen; and it&rsquo;s a nate gintleman that ye are, sure enough, and it&rsquo;s
    mesilf and me forten jist that&rsquo;ll be at yur sarvice, dear, inny time o&rsquo;
    day at all at all for the asking.&rdquo; And it&rsquo;s not mesilf ye wud have to be
    bate in the purliteness; so I made her a bow that wud ha&rsquo; broken yur heart
    altegither to behould, and thin I pulled aff me hat with a flourish, and
    thin I winked at her hard wid both eyes, as much as to say, &ldquo;True for you,
    yer a swate little crature, Mrs. Tracle, me darlint, and I wish I may be
    drownthed dead in a bog, if it&rsquo;s not mesilf, Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison,
    Barronitt, that&rsquo;ll make a houl bushel o&rsquo; love to yur leddyship, in the
    twinkling o&rsquo; the eye of a Londonderry purraty.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    And it was the nixt mornin&rsquo;, sure, jist as I was making up me mind whither
    it wouldn&rsquo;t be the purlite thing to sind a bit o&rsquo; writin&rsquo; to the widdy by
    way of a love-litter, when up com&rsquo;d the delivery servant wid an illigant
    card, and he tould me that the name on it (for I niver could rade the
    copperplate printin on account of being lift handed) was all about
    Mounseer, the Count, A Goose, Look&mdash;aisy, Maiter-di-dauns, and that
    the houl of the divilish lingo was the spalpeeny long name of the little
    ould furrener Frinchman as lived over the way.
</p>
<p>
    And jist wid that in cum&rsquo;d the little willian himself, and then he made me
    a broth of a bow, and thin he said he had ounly taken the liberty of doing
    me the honor of the giving me a call, and thin he went on to palaver at a
    great rate, and divil the bit did I comprehind what he wud be afther the
    tilling me at all at all, excipting and saving that he said &ldquo;pully wou,
    woolly wou,&rdquo; and tould me, among a bushel o&rsquo; lies, bad luck to him, that
    he was mad for the love o&rsquo; my widdy Misthress Tracle, and that my widdy
    Mrs. Tracle had a puncheon for him.
</p>
<p>
    At the hearin&rsquo; of this, ye may swear, though, I was as mad as a
    grasshopper, but I remimbered that I was Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison,
    Barronitt, and that it wasn&rsquo;t althegither gentaal to lit the anger git the
    upper hand o&rsquo; the purliteness, so I made light o&rsquo; the matter and kipt
    dark, and got quite sociable wid the little chap, and afther a while what
    did he do but ask me to go wid him to the widdy&rsquo;s, saying he wud give me
    the feshionable inthroduction to her leddyship.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Is it there ye are?&rdquo; said I thin to mesilf, &ldquo;and it&rsquo;s thrue for you,
    Pathrick, that ye&rsquo;re the fortunittest mortal in life. We&rsquo;ll soon see now
    whither it&rsquo;s your swate silf, or whither it&rsquo;s little Mounseer
    Maiter-di-dauns, that Misthress Tracle is head and ears in the love wid.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Wid that we wint aff to the widdy&rsquo;s, next door, and ye may well say it was
    an illigant place; so it was. There was a carpet all over the floor, and
    in one corner there was a forty-pinny and a Jew&rsquo;s harp and the divil knows
    what ilse, and in another corner was a sofy, the beautifullest thing in
    all natur, and sitting on the sofy, sure enough, there was the swate
    little angel, Misthress Tracle.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The tip o&rsquo; the mornin&rsquo; to ye,&rdquo; says I, &ldquo;Mrs. Tracle,&rdquo; and thin I made
    sich an illigant obaysance that it wud ha quite althegither bewildered the
    brain o&rsquo; ye.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Wully woo, pully woo, plump in the mud,&rdquo; says the little furrenner
    Frinchman, &ldquo;and sure Mrs. Tracle,&rdquo; says he, that he did, &ldquo;isn&rsquo;t this
    gintleman here jist his reverence Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison, Barronitt, and
    isn&rsquo;t he althegither and entirely the most particular frind and
    acquaintance that I have in the houl world?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    And wid that the widdy, she gits up from the sofy, and makes the swatest
    curthchy nor iver was seen; and thin down she sits like an angel; and
    thin, by the powers, it was that little spalpeen Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns
    that plumped his silf right down by the right side of her. Och hon! I
    ixpicted the two eyes o&rsquo; me wud ha cum&rsquo;d out of my head on the spot, I was
    so dispirate mad! Howiver, &ldquo;Bait who!&rdquo; says I, after awhile. &ldquo;Is it there
    ye are, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns?&rdquo; and so down I plumped on the lift side
    of her leddyship, to be aven with the willain. Botheration! it wud ha done
    your heart good to percave the illigant double wink that I gived her jist
    thin right in the face with both eyes.
</p>
<p>
    But the little ould Frinchman he niver beginned to suspict me at all at
    all, and disperate hard it was he made the love to her leddyship. &ldquo;Woully
    wou,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;Pully wou,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;Plump in the mud,&rdquo; says he.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;That&rsquo;s all to no use, Mounseer Frog, mavourneen,&rdquo; thinks I; and I talked
    as hard and as fast as I could all the while, and throth it was mesilf
    jist that divarted her leddyship complately and intirely, by rason of the
    illigant conversation that I kipt up wid her all about the dear bogs of
    Connaught. And by and by she gived me such a swate smile, from one ind of
    her mouth to the ither, that it made me as bould as a pig, and I jist took
    hould of the ind of her little finger in the most dillikitest manner in
    natur, looking at her all the while out o&rsquo; the whites of my eyes.
</p>
<p>
    And then ounly percave the cuteness of the swate angel, for no sooner did
    she obsarve that I was afther the squazing of her flipper, than she up wid
    it in a jiffy, and put it away behind her back, jist as much as to say,
    &ldquo;Now thin, Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison, there&rsquo;s a bitther chance for ye,
    mavourneen, for it&rsquo;s not altogether the gentaal thing to be afther the
    squazing of my flipper right full in the sight of that little furrenner
    Frinchman, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Wid that I giv&rsquo;d her a big wink jist to say, &ldquo;lit Sir Pathrick alone for
    the likes o&rsquo; them thricks,&rdquo; and thin I wint aisy to work, and you&rsquo;d have
    died wid the divarsion to behould how cliverly I slipped my right arm
    betwane the back o&rsquo; the sofy, and the back of her leddyship, and there,
    sure enough, I found a swate little flipper all a waiting to say, &ldquo;the tip
    o&rsquo; the mornin&rsquo; to ye, Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison, Barronitt.&rdquo; And wasn&rsquo;t it
    mesilf, sure, that jist giv&rsquo;d it the laste little bit of a squaze in the
    world, all in the way of a commincement, and not to be too rough wid her
    leddyship? and och, botheration, wasn&rsquo;t it the gentaalest and dilikittest
    of all the little squazes that I got in return? &ldquo;Blood and thunder, Sir
    Pathrick, mavourneen,&rdquo; thinks I to mesilf, &ldquo;fait it&rsquo;s jist the mother&rsquo;s
    son of you, and nobody else at all at all, that&rsquo;s the handsomest and the
    fortunittest young bog-throtter that ever cum&rsquo;d out of Connaught!&rdquo; And
    with that I givd the flipper a big squaze, and a big squaze it was, by the
    powers, that her leddyship giv&rsquo;d to me back. But it would ha split the
    seven sides of you wid the laffin&rsquo; to behould, jist then all at once, the
    consated behavior of Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns. The likes o&rsquo; sich a
    jabbering, and a smirking, and a parley-wouing as he begin&rsquo;d wid her
    leddyship, niver was known before upon arth; and divil may burn me if it
    wasn&rsquo;t me own very two peepers that cotch&rsquo;d him tipping her the wink out
    of one eye. Och, hon! if it wasn&rsquo;t mesilf thin that was mad as a Kilkenny
    cat I shud like to be tould who it was!
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Let me infarm you, Mounseer Maiter-di-dauns,&rdquo; said I, as purlite as iver
    ye seed, &ldquo;that it&rsquo;s not the gintaal thing at all at all, and not for the
    likes o&rsquo; you inny how, to be afther the oggling and a goggling at her
    leddyship in that fashion,&rdquo; and jist wid that such another squaze as it
    was I giv&rsquo;d her flipper, all as much as to say, &ldquo;isn&rsquo;t it Sir Pathrick
    now, my jewel, that&rsquo;ll be able to the proticting o&rsquo; you, my darlint?&rdquo; and
    then there cum&rsquo;d another squaze back, all by way of the answer. &ldquo;Thrue for
    you, Sir Pathrick,&rdquo; it said as plain as iver a squaze said in the world,
    &ldquo;Thrue for you, Sir Pathrick, mavourneen, and it&rsquo;s a proper nate gintleman
    ye are&mdash;that&rsquo;s God&rsquo;s truth,&rdquo; and with that she opened her two
    beautiful peepers till I belaved they wud ha&rsquo; cum&rsquo;d out of her hid
    althegither and intirely, and she looked first as mad as a cat at Mounseer
    Frog, and thin as smiling as all out o&rsquo; doors at mesilf.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Thin,&rdquo; says he, the willian, &ldquo;Och hon! and a wolly-wou, pully-wou,&rdquo; and
    then wid that he shoved up his two shoulders till the divil the bit of his
    hid was to be diskivered, and then he let down the two corners of his
    purraty-trap, and thin not a haporth more of the satisfaction could I git
    out o&rsquo; the spalpeen.
</p>
<p>
    Belave me, my jewel, it was Sir Pathrick that was unreasonable mad thin,
    and the more by token that the Frinchman kipt an wid his winking at the
    widdy; and the widdy she kept an wid the squazing of my flipper, as much
    as to say, &ldquo;At him again, Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison, mavourneen:&rdquo; so I just
    ripped out wid a big oath, and says I;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Ye little spalpeeny frog of a bog-throtting son of a bloody noun!&rdquo;&mdash;and
    jist thin what d&rsquo;ye think it was that her leddyship did? Troth she jumped
    up from the sofy as if she was bit, and made off through the door, while I
    turned my head round afther her, in a complate bewilderment and
    botheration, and followed her wid me two peepers. You percave I had a
    reason of my own for knowing that she couldn&rsquo;t git down the stares
    althegither and intirely; for I knew very well that I had hould of her
    hand, for the divil the bit had I iver lit it go. And says I; &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it
    the laste little bit of a mistake in the world that ye&rsquo;ve been afther the
    making, yer leddyship? Come back now, that&rsquo;s a darlint, and I&rsquo;ll give ye
    yur flipper.&rdquo; But aff she wint down the stairs like a shot, and thin I
    turned round to the little Frinch furrenner. Och hon! if it wasn&rsquo;t his
    spalpeeny little paw that I had hould of in my own&mdash;why thin&mdash;thin
    it wasn&rsquo;t&mdash;that&rsquo;s all.
</p>
<p>
    And maybe it wasn&rsquo;t mesilf that jist died then outright wid the laffin&rsquo;,
    to behold the little chap when he found out that it wasn&rsquo;t the widdy at
    all at all that he had had hould of all the time, but only Sir Pathrick
    O&rsquo;Grandison. The ould divil himself niver behild sich a long face as he
    pet an! As for Sir Pathrick O&rsquo;Grandison, Barronitt, it wasn&rsquo;t for the
    likes of his riverence to be afther the minding of a thrifle of a mistake.
    Ye may jist say, though (for it&rsquo;s God&rsquo;s thruth), that afore I left hould
    of the flipper of the spalpeen (which was not till afther her leddyship&rsquo;s
    futman had kicked us both down the stairs), I giv&rsquo;d it such a nate little
    broth of a squaze as made it all up into raspberry jam.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Woully wou,&rdquo; says he, &ldquo;pully wou,&rdquo; says he&mdash;&ldquo;Cot tam!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    And that&rsquo;s jist the thruth of the rason why he wears his lift hand in a
    sling.
</p>
<p>
    BON-BON.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Quand un bon vin meuble mon estomac,
          Je suis plus savant que Balzac&mdash;          Plus sage que Pibrac;
          Mon brass seul faisant l&rsquo;attaque
          De la nation Coseaque,
          La mettroit au sac;
          De Charon je passerois le lac,
          En dormant dans son bac;
          J&rsquo;irois au fier Eac,
          Sans que mon coeur fit tic ni tac,
          Présenter du tabac.
                      French Vaudeville
</pre>
<p>
    THAT Pierre Bon-Bon was a <i>restaurateur</i> of uncommon qualifications,
    no man who, during the reign of&mdash;&mdash;, frequented the little Câfé
    in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre at Rouen, will, I imagine, feel himself at
    liberty to dispute. That Pierre Bon-Bon was, in an equal degree, skilled
    in the philosophy of that period is, I presume, still more especially
    undeniable. His <i>patés à la fois</i> were beyond doubt immaculate; but
    what pen can do justice to his essays <i>sur la Nature</i>&mdash;his
    thoughts sur <i>l&rsquo;Ame</i>&mdash;his observations <i>sur l&rsquo;Esprit?</i> If
    his <i>omelettes</i>&mdash;if his <i>fricandeaux</i> were inestimable,
    what <i>littérateur</i> of that day would not have given twice as much for
    an &ldquo;<i>Idée de Bon-Bon</i>&rdquo; as for all the trash of &ldquo;<i>Idées</i>&rdquo; of all
    the rest of the <i>savants?</i> Bon-Bon had ransacked libraries which no
    other man had ransacked&mdash;had more than any other would have
    entertained a notion of reading&mdash;had understood more than any other
    would have conceived the possibility of understanding; and although, while
    he flourished, there were not wanting some authors at Rouen to assert
    &ldquo;that his <i>dicta</i> evinced neither the purity of the Academy, nor the
    depth of the Lyceum&rdquo;&mdash;although, mark me, his doctrines were by no
    means very generally comprehended, still it did not follow that they were
    difficult of comprehension. It was, I think, on account of their
    self-evidency that many persons were led to consider them abstruse. It is
    to Bon-Bon&mdash;but let this go no farther&mdash;it is to Bon-Bon that
    Kant himself is mainly indebted for his metaphysics. The former was indeed
    not a Platonist, nor strictly speaking an Aristotelian&mdash;nor did he,
    like the modern Leibnitz, waste those precious hours which might be
    employed in the invention of a <i>fricasée</i> or, <i>facili gradu</i>,
    the analysis of a sensation, in frivolous attempts at reconciling the
    obstinate oils and waters of ethical discussion. Not at all. Bon-Bon was
    Ionic&mdash;Bon-Bon was equally Italic. He reasoned <i>à priori</i>&mdash;He
    reasoned also <i>à posteriori</i>. His ideas were innate&mdash;or
    otherwise. He believed in George of Trebizonde&mdash;He believed in
    Bossarion [Bessarion]. Bon-Bon was emphatically a&mdash;Bon-Bonist.
</p>
<p>
    I have spoken of the philosopher in his capacity of <i>restaurateur</i>. I
    would not, however, have any friend of mine imagine that, in fulfilling
    his hereditary duties in that line, our hero wanted a proper estimation of
    their dignity and importance. Far from it. It was impossible to say in
    which branch of his profession he took the greater pride. In his opinion
    the powers of the intellect held intimate connection with the capabilities
    of the stomach. I am not sure, indeed, that he greatly disagreed with the
    Chinese, who held that the soul lies in the abdomen. The Greeks at all
    events were right, he thought, who employed the same words for the mind
    and the diaphragm. (*1) By this I do not mean to insinuate a charge of
    gluttony, or indeed any other serious charge to the prejudice of the
    metaphysician. If Pierre Bon-Bon had his failings&mdash;and what great man
    has not a thousand?&mdash;if Pierre Bon-Bon, I say, had his failings, they
    were failings of very little importance&mdash;faults indeed which, in
    other tempers, have often been looked upon rather in the light of virtues.
    As regards one of these foibles, I should not even have mentioned it in
    this history but for the remarkable prominency&mdash;the extreme <i>alto
    relievo</i>&mdash;in which it jutted out from the plane of his general
    disposition. He could never let slip an opportunity of making a bargain.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     {*1} MD
</pre>
<p>
    Not that he was avaricious&mdash;no. It was by no means necessary to the
    satisfaction of the philosopher, that the bargain should be to his own
    proper advantage. Provided a trade could be effected&mdash;a trade of any
    kind, upon any terms, or under any circumstances&mdash;a triumphant smile
    was seen for many days thereafter to enlighten his countenance, and a
    knowing wink of the eye to give evidence of his sagacity.
</p>
<p>
    At any epoch it would not be very wonderful if a humor so peculiar as the
    one I have just mentioned, should elicit attention and remark. At the
    epoch of our narrative, had this peculiarity not attracted observation,
    there would have been room for wonder indeed. It was soon reported that,
    upon all occasions of the kind, the smile of Bon-Bon was wont to differ
    widely from the downright grin with which he would laugh at his own jokes,
    or welcome an acquaintance. Hints were thrown out of an exciting nature;
    stories were told of perilous bargains made in a hurry and repented of at
    leisure; and instances were adduced of unaccountable capacities, vague
    longings, and unnatural inclinations implanted by the author of all evil
    for wise purposes of his own.
</p>
<p>
    The philosopher had other weaknesses&mdash;but they are scarcely worthy
    our serious examination. For example, there are few men of extraordinary
    profundity who are found wanting in an inclination for the bottle. Whether
    this inclination be an exciting cause, or rather a valid proof of such
    profundity, it is a nice thing to say. Bon-Bon, as far as I can learn, did
    not think the subject adapted to minute investigation;&mdash;nor do I. Yet
    in the indulgence of a propensity so truly classical, it is not to be
    supposed that the restaurateur would lose sight of that intuitive
    discrimination which was wont to characterize, at one and the same time,
    his essais and his omelettes. In his seclusions the Vin de Bourgogne had
    its allotted hour, and there were appropriate moments for the Cotes du
    Rhone. With him Sauterne was to Medoc what Catullus was to Homer. He would
    sport with a syllogism in sipping St. Peray, but unravel an argument over
    Clos de Vougeot, and upset a theory in a torrent of Chambertin. Well had
    it been if the same quick sense of propriety had attended him in the
    peddling propensity to which I have formerly alluded&mdash;but this was by
    no means the case. Indeed to say the truth, that trait of mind in the
    philosophic Bon-Bon did begin at length to assume a character of strange
    intensity and mysticism, and appeared deeply tinctured with the diablerie
    of his favorite German studies.
</p>
<p>
    To enter the little Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was, at the period of
    our tale, to enter the sanctum of a man of genius. Bon-Bon was a man of
    genius. There was not a sous-cusinier in Rouen, who could not have told
    you that Bon-Bon was a man of genius. His very cat knew it, and forebore
    to whisk her tail in the presence of the man of genius. His large
    water-dog was acquainted with the fact, and upon the approach of his
    master, betrayed his sense of inferiority by a sanctity of deportment, a
    debasement of the ears, and a dropping of the lower jaw not altogether
    unworthy of a dog. It is, however, true that much of this habitual respect
    might have been attributed to the personal appearance of the
    metaphysician. A distinguished exterior will, I am constrained to say,
    have its way even with a beast; and I am willing to allow much in the
    outward man of the restaurateur calculated to impress the imagination of
    the quadruped. There is a peculiar majesty about the atmosphere of the
    little great&mdash;if I may be permitted so equivocal an expression&mdash;which
    mere physical bulk alone will be found at all times inefficient in
    creating. If, however, Bon-Bon was barely three feet in height, and if his
    head was diminutively small, still it was impossible to behold the
    rotundity of his stomach without a sense of magnificence nearly bordering
    upon the sublime. In its size both dogs and men must have seen a type of
    his acquirements&mdash;in its immensity a fitting habitation for his
    immortal soul.
</p>
<p>
    I might here&mdash;if it so pleased me&mdash;dilate upon the matter of
    habiliment, and other mere circumstances of the external metaphysician. I
    might hint that the hair of our hero was worn short, combed smoothly over
    his forehead, and surmounted by a conical-shaped white flannel cap and
    tassels&mdash;that his pea-green jerkin was not after the fashion of those
    worn by the common class of restaurateurs at that day&mdash;that the
    sleeves were something fuller than the reigning costume permitted&mdash;that
    the cuffs were turned up, not as usual in that barbarous period, with
    cloth of the same quality and color as the garment, but faced in a more
    fanciful manner with the particolored velvet of Genoa&mdash;that his
    slippers were of a bright purple, curiously filigreed, and might have been
    manufactured in Japan, but for the exquisite pointing of the toes, and the
    brilliant tints of the binding and embroidery&mdash;that his breeches were
    of the yellow satin-like material called aimable&mdash;that his sky-blue
    cloak, resembling in form a dressing-wrapper, and richly bestudded all
    over with crimson devices, floated cavalierly upon his shoulders like a
    mist of the morning&mdash;and that his tout ensemble gave rise to the
    remarkable words of Benevenuta, the Improvisatrice of Florence, &ldquo;that it
    was difficult to say whether Pierre Bon-Bon was indeed a bird of Paradise,
    or rather a very Paradise of perfection.&rdquo; I might, I say, expatiate upon
    all these points if I pleased,&mdash;but I forbear, merely personal
    details may be left to historical novelists,&mdash;they are beneath the
    moral dignity of matter-of-fact.
</p>
<p>
    I have said that &ldquo;to enter the Cafe in the cul-de-sac Le Febvre was to
    enter the sanctum of a man of genius&rdquo;&mdash;but then it was only the man
    of genius who could duly estimate the merits of the sanctum. A sign,
    consisting of a vast folio, swung before the entrance. On one side of the
    volume was painted a bottle; on the reverse a pate. On the back were
    visible in large letters Oeuvres de Bon-Bon. Thus was delicately shadowed
    forth the two-fold occupation of the proprietor.
</p>
<p>
    Upon stepping over the threshold, the whole interior of the building
    presented itself to view. A long, low-pitched room, of antique
    construction, was indeed all the accommodation afforded by the Cafe. In a
    corner of the apartment stood the bed of the metaphysician. An army of
    curtains, together with a canopy a la Grecque, gave it an air at once
    classic and comfortable. In the corner diagonary opposite, appeared, in
    direct family communion, the properties of the kitchen and the
    bibliotheque. A dish of polemics stood peacefully upon the dresser. Here
    lay an ovenful of the latest ethics&mdash;there a kettle of dudecimo
    melanges. Volumes of German morality were hand and glove with the gridiron&mdash;a
    toasting-fork might be discovered by the side of Eusebius&mdash;Plato
    reclined at his ease in the frying-pan&mdash;and contemporary manuscripts
    were filed away upon the spit.
</p>
<p>
    In other respects the Cafe de Bon-Bon might be said to differ little from
    the usual restaurants of the period. A fireplace yawned opposite the door.
    On the right of the fireplace an open cupboard displayed a formidable
    array of labelled bottles.
</p>
<p>
    It was here, about twelve o&rsquo;clock one night during the severe winter the
    comments of his neighbours upon his singular propensity&mdash;that Pierre
    Bon-Bon, I say, having turned them all out of his house, locked the door
    upon them with an oath, and betook himself in no very pacific mood to the
    comforts of a leather-bottomed arm-chair, and a fire of blazing fagots.
</p>
<p>
    It was one of those terrific nights which are only met with once or twice
    during a century. It snowed fiercely, and the house tottered to its centre
    with the floods of wind that, rushing through the crannies in the wall,
    and pouring impetuously down the chimney, shook awfully the curtains of
    the philosopher&rsquo;s bed, and disorganized the economy of his pate-pans and
    papers. The huge folio sign that swung without, exposed to the fury of the
    tempest, creaked ominously, and gave out a moaning sound from its
    stanchions of solid oak.
</p>
<p>
    It was in no placid temper, I say, that the metaphysician drew up his
    chair to its customary station by the hearth. Many circumstances of a
    perplexing nature had occurred during the day, to disturb the serenity of
    his meditations. In attempting des oeufs a la Princesse, he had
    unfortunately perpetrated an omelette a la Reine; the discovery of a
    principle in ethics had been frustrated by the overturning of a stew; and
    last, not least, he had been thwarted in one of those admirable bargains
    which he at all times took such especial delight in bringing to a
    successful termination. But in the chafing of his mind at these
    unaccountable vicissitudes, there did not fail to be mingled some degree
    of that nervous anxiety which the fury of a boisterous night is so well
    calculated to produce. Whistling to his more immediate vicinity the large
    black water-dog we have spoken of before, and settling himself uneasily in
    his chair, he could not help casting a wary and unquiet eye toward those
    distant recesses of the apartment whose inexorable shadows not even the
    red firelight itself could more than partially succeed in overcoming.
    Having completed a scrutiny whose exact purpose was perhaps unintelligible
    to himself, he drew close to his seat a small table covered with books and
    papers, and soon became absorbed in the task of retouching a voluminous
    manuscript, intended for publication on the morrow.
</p>
<p>
    He had been thus occupied for some minutes when &ldquo;I am in no hurry,
    Monsieur Bon-Bon,&rdquo; suddenly whispered a whining voice in the apartment.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The devil!&rdquo; ejaculated our hero, starting to his feet, overturning the
    table at his side, and staring around him in astonishment.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Very true,&rdquo; calmly replied the voice.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Very true!&mdash;what is very true?&mdash;how came you here?&rdquo; vociferated
    the metaphysician, as his eye fell upon something which lay stretched at
    full length upon the bed.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I was saying,&rdquo; said the intruder, without attending to the
    interrogatives,&mdash;&ldquo;I was saying that I am not at all pushed for time&mdash;that
    the business upon which I took the liberty of calling, is of no pressing
    importance&mdash;in short, that I can very well wait until you have
    finished your Exposition.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;My Exposition!&mdash;there now!&mdash;how do you know?&mdash;how came you
    to understand that I was writing an Exposition?&mdash;good God!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Hush!&rdquo; replied the figure, in a shrill undertone; and, arising quickly
    from the bed, he made a single step toward our hero, while an iron lamp
    that depended over-head swung convulsively back from his approach.
</p>
<p>
    The philosopher&rsquo;s amazement did not prevent a narrow scrutiny of the
    stranger&rsquo;s dress and appearance. The outlines of his figure, exceedingly
    lean, but much above the common height, were rendered minutely distinct,
    by means of a faded suit of black cloth which fitted tight to the skin,
    but was otherwise cut very much in the style of a century ago. These
    garments had evidently been intended for a much shorter person than their
    present owner. His ankles and wrists were left naked for several inches.
    In his shoes, however, a pair of very brilliant buckles gave the lie to
    the extreme poverty implied by the other portions of his dress. His head
    was bare, and entirely bald, with the exception of a hinder part, from
    which depended a queue of considerable length. A pair of green spectacles,
    with side glasses, protected his eyes from the influence of the light, and
    at the same time prevented our hero from ascertaining either their color
    or their conformation. About the entire person there was no evidence of a
    shirt, but a white cravat, of filthy appearance, was tied with extreme
    precision around the throat and the ends hanging down formally side by
    side gave (although I dare say unintentionally) the idea of an
    ecclesiastic. Indeed, many other points both in his appearance and
    demeanor might have very well sustained a conception of that nature. Over
    his left ear, he carried, after the fashion of a modern clerk, an
    instrument resembling the stylus of the ancients. In a breast-pocket of
    his coat appeared conspicuously a small black volume fastened with clasps
    of steel. This book, whether accidentally or not, was so turned outwardly
    from the person as to discover the words &ldquo;Rituel Catholique&rdquo; in white
    letters upon the back. His entire physiognomy was interestingly saturnine&mdash;even
    cadaverously pale. The forehead was lofty, and deeply furrowed with the
    ridges of contemplation. The corners of the mouth were drawn down into an
    expression of the most submissive humility. There was also a clasping of
    the hands, as he stepped toward our hero&mdash;a deep sigh&mdash;and
    altogether a look of such utter sanctity as could not have failed to be
    unequivocally preposessing. Every shadow of anger faded from the
    countenance of the metaphysician, as, having completed a satisfactory
    survey of his visiter&rsquo;s person, he shook him cordially by the hand, and
    conducted him to a seat.
</p>
<p>
    There would however be a radical error in attributing this instantaneous
    transition of feeling in the philosopher, to any one of those causes which
    might naturally be supposed to have had an influence. Indeed, Pierre
    Bon-Bon, from what I have been able to understand of his disposition, was
    of all men the least likely to be imposed upon by any speciousness of
    exterior deportment. It was impossible that so accurate an observer of men
    and things should have failed to discover, upon the moment, the real
    character of the personage who had thus intruded upon his hospitality. To
    say no more, the conformation of his visiter&rsquo;s feet was sufficiently
    remarkable&mdash;he maintained lightly upon his head an inordinately tall
    hat&mdash;there was a tremulous swelling about the hinder part of his
    breeches&mdash;and the vibration of his coat tail was a palpable fact.
    Judge, then, with what feelings of satisfaction our hero found himself
    thrown thus at once into the society of a person for whom he had at all
    times entertained the most unqualified respect. He was, however, too much
    of the diplomatist to let escape him any intimation of his suspicions in
    regard to the true state of affairs. It was not his cue to appear at all
    conscious of the high honor he thus unexpectedly enjoyed; but, by leading
    his guest into the conversation, to elicit some important ethical ideas,
    which might, in obtaining a place in his contemplated publication,
    enlighten the human race, and at the same time immortalize himself&mdash;ideas
    which, I should have added, his visitor&rsquo;s great age, and well-known
    proficiency in the science of morals, might very well have enabled him to
    afford.
</p>
<p>
    Actuated by these enlightened views, our hero bade the gentleman sit down,
    while he himself took occasion to throw some fagots upon the fire, and
    place upon the now re-established table some bottles of Mousseux. Having
    quickly completed these operations, he drew his chair vis-a-vis to his
    companion&rsquo;s, and waited until the latter should open the conversation. But
    plans even the most skilfully matured are often thwarted in the outset of
    their application&mdash;and the restaurateur found himself nonplussed by
    the very first words of his visiter&rsquo;s speech.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I see you know me, Bon-Bon,&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;ha! ha! ha!&mdash;he! he! he!&mdash;hi!
    hi! hi!&mdash;ho! ho! ho!&mdash;hu! hu! hu!&rdquo;&mdash;and the devil, dropping
    at once the sanctity of his demeanor, opened to its fullest extent a mouth
    from ear to ear, so as to display a set of jagged and fang-like teeth,
    and, throwing back his head, laughed long, loudly, wickedly, and
    uproariously, while the black dog, crouching down upon his haunches,
    joined lustily in the chorus, and the tabby cat, flying off at a tangent,
    stood up on end, and shrieked in the farthest corner of the apartment.
</p>
<p>
    Not so the philosopher; he was too much a man of the world either to laugh
    like the dog, or by shrieks to betray the indecorous trepidation of the
    cat. It must be confessed, he felt a little astonishment to see the white
    letters which formed the words &ldquo;Rituel Catholique&rdquo; on the book in his
    guest&rsquo;s pocket, momently changing both their color and their import, and
    in a few seconds, in place of the original title the words Regitre des
    Condamnes blazed forth in characters of red. This startling circumstance,
    when Bon-Bon replied to his visiter&rsquo;s remark, imparted to his manner an
    air of embarrassment which probably might, not otherwise have been
    observed.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Why sir,&rdquo; said the philosopher, &ldquo;why sir, to speak sincerely&mdash;I I
    imagine&mdash;I have some faint&mdash;some very faint idea&mdash;of the
    remarkable honor-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Oh!&mdash;ah!&mdash;yes!&mdash;very well!&rdquo; interrupted his Majesty; &ldquo;say
    no more&mdash;I see how it is.&rdquo; And hereupon, taking off his green
    spectacles, he wiped the glasses carefully with the sleeve of his coat,
    and deposited them in his pocket.
</p>
<p>
    If Bon-Bon had been astonished at the incident of the book, his amazement
    was now much increased by the spectacle which here presented itself to
    view. In raising his eyes, with a strong feeling of curiosity to ascertain
    the color of his guest&rsquo;s, he found them by no means black, as he had
    anticipated&mdash;nor gray, as might have been imagined&mdash;nor yet
    hazel nor blue&mdash;nor indeed yellow nor red&mdash;nor purple&mdash;nor
    white&mdash;nor green&mdash;nor any other color in the heavens above, or
    in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth. In short, Pierre
    Bon-Bon not only saw plainly that his Majesty had no eyes whatsoever, but
    could discover no indications of their having existed at any previous
    period&mdash;for the space where eyes should naturally have been was, I am
    constrained to say, simply a dead level of flesh.
</p>
<p>
    It was not in the nature of the metaphysician to forbear making some
    inquiry into the sources of so strange a phenomenon, and the reply of his
    Majesty was at once prompt, dignified, and satisfactory.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Eyes! my dear Bon-Bon&mdash;eyes! did you say?&mdash;oh!&mdash;ah!&mdash;I
    perceive! The ridiculous prints, eh, which are in, circulation, have given
    you a false idea of my personal appearance? Eyes!&mdash;true. Eyes, Pierre
    Bon-Bon, are very well in their proper place&mdash;that, you would say, is
    the head?&mdash;right&mdash;the head of a worm. To you, likewise, these
    optics are indispensable&mdash;yet I will convince you that my vision is
    more penetrating than your own. There is a cat I see in the corner&mdash;a
    pretty cat&mdash;look at her&mdash;observe her well. Now, Bon-Bon, do you
    behold the thoughts&mdash;the thoughts, I say,&mdash;the ideas&mdash;the
    reflections&mdash;which are being engendered in her pericranium? There it
    is, now&mdash;you do not! She is thinking we admire the length of her tail
    and the profundity of her mind. She has just concluded that I am the most
    distinguished of ecclesiastics, and that you are the most superficial of
    metaphysicians. Thus you see I am not altogether blind; but to one of my
    profession, the eyes you speak of would be merely an incumbrance, liable
    at any time to be put out by a toasting-iron, or a pitchfork. To you, I
    allow, these optical affairs are indispensable. Endeavor, Bon-Bon, to use
    them well;&mdash;my vision is the soul.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Hereupon the guest helped himself to the wine upon the table, and pouring
    out a bumper for Bon-Bon, requested him to drink it without scruple, and
    make himself perfectly at home.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;A clever book that of yours, Pierre,&rdquo; resumed his Majesty, tapping our
    friend knowingly upon the shoulder, as the latter put down his glass after
    a thorough compliance with his visiter&rsquo;s injunction. &ldquo;A clever book that
    of yours, upon my honor. It&rsquo;s a work after my own heart. Your arrangement
    of the matter, I think, however, might be improved, and many of your
    notions remind me of Aristotle. That philosopher was one of my most
    intimate acquaintances. I liked him as much for his terrible ill temper,
    as for his happy knack at making a blunder. There is only one solid truth
    in all that he has written, and for that I gave him the hint out of pure
    compassion for his absurdity. I suppose, Pierre Bon-Bon, you very well
    know to what divine moral truth I am alluding?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Cannot say that I&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Indeed!&mdash;why it was I who told Aristotle that by sneezing, men
    expelled superfluous ideas through the proboscis.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Which is&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;undoubtedly the case,&rdquo; said the
    metaphysician, while he poured out for himself another bumper of Mousseux,
    and offered his snuff-box to the fingers of his visiter.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;There was Plato, too,&rdquo; continued his Majesty, modestly declining the
    snuff-box and the compliment it implied&mdash;&ldquo;there was Plato, too, for
    whom I, at one time, felt all the affection of a friend. You knew Plato,
    Bon-Bon?&mdash;ah, no, I beg a thousand pardons. He met me at Athens, one
    day, in the Parthenon, and told me he was distressed for an idea. I bade
    him write, down that o nous estin aulos. He said that he would do so, and
    went home, while I stepped over to the pyramids. But my conscience smote
    me for having uttered a truth, even to aid a friend, and hastening back to
    Athens, I arrived behind the philosopher&rsquo;s chair as he was inditing the
    &lsquo;aulos.&rsquo;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Giving the lambda a fillip with my finger, I turned it upside down. So
    the sentence now read &lsquo;o nous estin augos&rsquo;, and is, you perceive, the
    fundamental doctrines in his metaphysics.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Were you ever at Rome?&rdquo; asked the restaurateur, as he finished his second
    bottle of Mousseux, and drew from the closet a larger supply of
    Chambertin.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;But once, Monsieur Bon-Bon, but once. There was a time,&rdquo; said the devil,
    as if reciting some passage from a book&mdash;&ldquo;there was a time when
    occurred an anarchy of five years, during which the republic, bereft of
    all its officers, had no magistracy besides the tribunes of the people,
    and these were not legally vested with any degree of executive power&mdash;at
    that time, Monsieur Bon-Bon&mdash;at that time only I was in Rome, and I
    have no earthly acquaintance, consequently, with any of its philosophy.&rdquo;
    (*2)
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     {*2} Ils ecrivaient sur la Philosophie (<i>Cicero, Lucretius,
     Seneca</i>) mais c&rsquo;etait la Philosophie Grecque.&mdash;<i>Condorcet</i>.
</pre>
<p>
    &ldquo;What do you think of&mdash;what do you think of&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;Epicurus?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;What do I think of whom?&rdquo; said the devil, in astonishment, &ldquo;you cannot
    surely mean to find any fault with Epicurus! What do I think of Epicurus!
    Do you mean me, sir?&mdash;I am Epicurus! I am the same philosopher who
    wrote each of the three hundred treatises commemorated by Diogenes
    Laertes.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a lie!&rdquo; said the metaphysician, for the wine had gotten a little
    into his head.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Very well!&mdash;very well, sir!&mdash;very well, indeed, sir!&rdquo; said his
    Majesty, apparently much flattered.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a lie!&rdquo; repeated the restaurateur, dogmatically; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s a&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;a
    lie!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Well, well, have it your own way!&rdquo; said the devil, pacifically, and
    Bon-Bon, having beaten his Majesty at argument, thought it his duty to
    conclude a second bottle of Chambertin.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;As I was saying,&rdquo; resumed the visiter&mdash;&ldquo;as I was observing a little
    while ago, there are some very outre notions in that book of yours
    Monsieur Bon-Bon. What, for instance, do you mean by all that humbug about
    the soul? Pray, sir, what is the soul?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;soul,&rdquo; replied the metaphysician, referring to
    his MS., &ldquo;is undoubtedly-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;No, sir!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Indubitably-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;No, sir!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Indisputably-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;No, sir!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Evidently-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;No, sir!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Incontrovertibly-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;No, sir!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Hiccup!&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;No, sir!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;And beyond all question, a-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;No sir, the soul is no such thing!&rdquo; (Here the philosopher, looking
    daggers, took occasion to make an end, upon the spot, of his third bottle
    of Chambertin.)
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Then&mdash;hic-cup!&mdash;pray, sir&mdash;what&mdash;what is it?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;That is neither here nor there, Monsieur Bon-Bon,&rdquo; replied his Majesty,
    musingly. &ldquo;I have tasted&mdash;that is to say, I have known some very bad
    souls, and some too&mdash;pretty good ones.&rdquo; Here he smacked his lips,
    and, having unconsciously let fall his hand upon the volume in his pocket,
    was seized with a violent fit of sneezing.
</p>
<p>
    He continued.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;There was the soul of Cratinus&mdash;passable: Aristophanes&mdash;racy:
    Plato&mdash;exquisite&mdash;not your Plato, but Plato the comic poet; your
    Plato would have turned the stomach of Cerberus&mdash;faugh! Then let me
    see! there were Naevius, and Andronicus, and Plautus, and Terentius. Then
    there were Lucilius, and Catullus, and Naso, and Quintus Flaccus,&mdash;dear
    Quinty! as I called him when he sung a seculare for my amusement, while I
    toasted him, in pure good humor, on a fork. But they want flavor, these
    Romans. One fat Greek is worth a dozen of them, and besides will keep,
    which cannot be said of a Quirite.&mdash;Let us taste your Sauterne.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Bon-Bon had by this time made up his mind to nil admirari and endeavored
    to hand down the bottles in question. He was, however, conscious of a
    strange sound in the room like the wagging of a tail. Of this, although
    extremely indecent in his Majesty, the philosopher took no notice:&mdash;simply
    kicking the dog, and requesting him to be quiet. The visiter continued:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I found that Horace tasted very much like Aristotle;&mdash;you know I am
    fond of variety. Terentius I could not have told from Menander. Naso, to
    my astonishment, was Nicander in disguise. Virgilius had a strong twang of
    Theocritus. Martial put me much in mind of Archilochus&mdash;and Titus
    Livius was positively Polybius and none other.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Hic-cup!&rdquo; here replied Bon-Bon, and his majesty proceeded:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;But if I have a penchant, Monsieur Bon-Bon&mdash;if I have a penchant, it
    is for a philosopher. Yet, let me tell you, sir, it is not every dev&mdash;I
    mean it is not every gentleman who knows how to choose a philosopher. Long
    ones are not good; and the best, if not carefully shelled, are apt to be a
    little rancid on account of the gall!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Shelled!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I mean taken out of the carcass.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;What do you think of a&mdash;hic-cup!&mdash;physician?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t mention them!&mdash;ugh! ugh! ugh!&rdquo; (Here his Majesty retched
    violently.) &ldquo;I never tasted but one&mdash;that rascal Hippocrates!&mdash;smelt
    of asafoetida&mdash;ugh! ugh! ugh!&mdash;caught a wretched cold washing
    him in the Styx&mdash;and after all he gave me the cholera morbus.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The&mdash;hiccup&mdash;wretch!&rdquo; ejaculated Bon-Bon, &ldquo;the&mdash;hic-cup!&mdash;absorption
    of a pill-box!&rdquo;&mdash;and the philosopher dropped a tear.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;After all,&rdquo; continued the visiter, &ldquo;after all, if a dev&mdash;if a
    gentleman wishes to live, he must have more talents than one or two; and
    with us a fat face is an evidence of diplomacy.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;How so?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Why, we are sometimes exceedingly pushed for provisions. You must know
    that, in a climate so sultry as mine, it is frequently impossible to keep
    a spirit alive for more than two or three hours; and after death, unless
    pickled immediately (and a pickled spirit is not good), they will&mdash;smell&mdash;you
    understand, eh? Putrefaction is always to be apprehended when the souls
    are consigned to us in the usual way.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Hiccup!&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;good God! how do you manage?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Here the iron lamp commenced swinging with redoubled violence, and the
    devil half started from his seat;&mdash;however, with a slight sigh, he
    recovered his composure, merely saying to our hero in a low tone: &ldquo;I tell
    you what, Pierre Bon-Bon, we must have no more swearing.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    The host swallowed another bumper, by way of denoting thorough
    comprehension and acquiescence, and the visiter continued.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Why, there are several ways of managing. The most of us starve: some put
    up with the pickle: for my part I purchase my spirits vivente corpore, in
    which case I find they keep very well.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;But the body!&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;the body!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The body, the body&mdash;well, what of the body?&mdash;oh! ah! I
    perceive. Why, sir, the body is not at all affected by the transaction. I
    have made innumerable purchases of the kind in my day, and the parties
    never experienced any inconvenience. There were Cain and Nimrod, and Nero,
    and Caligula, and Dionysius, and Pisistratus, and&mdash;and a thousand
    others, who never knew what it was to have a soul during the latter part
    of their lives; yet, sir, these men adorned society. Why possession of his
    faculties, mental and corporeal? Who writes a keener epigram? Who reasons
    more wittily? Who&mdash;but stay! I have his agreement in my pocket-book.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Thus saying, he produced a red leather wallet, and took from it a number
    of papers. Upon some of these Bon-Bon caught a glimpse of the letters
    Machi&mdash;Maza&mdash;Robesp&mdash;with the words Caligula, George,
    Elizabeth. His Majesty selected a narrow slip of parchment, and from it
    read aloud the following words:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;In consideration of certain mental endowments which it is unnecessary to
    specify, and in further consideration of one thousand louis d&rsquo;or, I being
    aged one year and one month, do hereby make over to the bearer of this
    agreement all my right, title, and appurtenance in the shadow called my
    soul. (Signed) A....&rdquo; {*4} (Here His Majesty repeated a name which I did
    not feel justified in indicating more unequivocally.)
</p>
<p>
    {*4} Quere-Arouet?
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;A clever fellow that,&rdquo; resumed he; &ldquo;but like you, Monsieur Bon-Bon, he
    was mistaken about the soul. The soul a shadow, truly! The soul a shadow;
    Ha! ha! ha!&mdash;he! he! he!&mdash;hu! hu! hu! Only think of a fricasseed
    shadow!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Only think&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;of a fricasseed shadow!&rdquo; exclaimed our
    hero, whose faculties were becoming much illuminated by the profundity of
    his Majesty&rsquo;s discourse.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Only think of a hiccup!&mdash;fricasseed shadow!! Now, damme!&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;humph!
    If I would have been such a&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;nincompoop! My soul, Mr.&mdash;humph!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Your soul, Monsieur Bon-Bon?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Yes, sir&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;my soul is-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;What, sir?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;No shadow, damme!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Did you mean to say-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Yes, sir, my soul is&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;humph!&mdash;yes, sir.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Did you not intend to assert-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;My soul is&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;peculiarly qualified for&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;a-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;What, sir?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Stew.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Ha!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Soufflee.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Eh!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Fricassee.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Indeed!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Ragout and fricandeau&mdash;and see here, my good fellow! I&rsquo;ll let you
    have it&mdash;hiccup!&mdash;a bargain.&rdquo; Here the philosopher slapped his
    Majesty upon the back.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t think of such a thing,&rdquo; said the latter calmly, at the same time
    rising from his seat. The metaphysician stared.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Am supplied at present,&rdquo; said his Majesty.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Hiccup&mdash;e-h?&rdquo; said the philosopher.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Have no funds on hand.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;What?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Besides, very unhandsome in me&mdash;&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Sir!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;To take advantage of-&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Hiccup!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Your present disgusting and ungentlemanly situation.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Here the visiter bowed and withdrew&mdash;in what manner could not
    precisely be ascertained&mdash;but in a well-concerted effort to discharge
    a bottle at &ldquo;the villain,&rdquo; the slender chain was severed that depended
    from the ceiling, and the metaphysician prostrated by the downfall of the
    lamp.
</p>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY.
</h2>
<p>
    THE <i>symposium</i> of the preceding evening had been a little too much
    for my nerves. I had a wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy.
    Instead of going out therefore to spend the evening as I had proposed, it
    occurred to me that I could not do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful
    of supper and go immediately to bed.
</p>
<p>
    A light supper of course. I am exceedingly fond of Welsh rabbit. More than
    a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still, there
    can be no material objection to two. And really between two and three,
    there is merely a single unit of difference. I ventured, perhaps, upon
    four. My wife will have it five;&mdash;but, clearly, she has confounded
    two very distinct affairs. The abstract number, five, I am willing to
    admit; but, concretely, it has reference to bottles of Brown Stout,
    without which, in the way of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed.
</p>
<p>
    Having thus concluded a frugal meal, and donned my night-cap, with the
    serene hope of enjoying it till noon the next day, I placed my head upon
    the pillow, and, through the aid of a capital conscience, fell into a
    profound slumber forthwith.
</p>
<p>
    But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled? I could not have completed
    my third snore when there came a furious ringing at the street-door bell,
    and then an impatient thumping at the knocker, which awakened me at once.
    In a minute afterward, and while I was still rubbing my eyes, my wife
    thrust in my face a note, from my old friend, Doctor Ponnonner. It ran
    thus:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
      &ldquo;Come to me, by all means, my dear good friend, as soon as you
 receive this. Come and help us to rejoice. At last, by long persevering
 diplomacy, I have gained the assent of the Directors of the City Museum,
 to my examination of the Mummy&mdash;you know the one I mean. I have
 permission to unswathe it and open it, if desirable. A few friends only
 will be present&mdash;you, of course. The Mummy is now at my house, and we
 shall begin to unroll it at eleven to-night.

           &ldquo;Yours, ever,

                   PONNONNER.
</pre>
<p>
    By the time I had reached the &ldquo;Ponnonner,&rdquo; it struck me that I was as wide
    awake as a man need be. I leaped out of bed in an ecstacy, overthrowing
    all in my way; dressed myself with a rapidity truly marvellous; and set
    off, at the top of my speed, for the doctor&rsquo;s.
</p>
<p>
    There I found a very eager company assembled. They had been awaiting me
    with much impatience; the Mummy was extended upon the dining-table; and
    the moment I entered its examination was commenced.
</p>
<p>
    It was one of a pair brought, several years previously, by Captain Arthur
    Sabretash, a cousin of Ponnonner&rsquo;s from a tomb near Eleithias, in the
    Lybian mountains, a considerable distance above Thebes on the Nile. The
    grottoes at this point, although less magnificent than the Theban
    sepulchres, are of higher interest, on account of affording more numerous
    illustrations of the private life of the Egyptians. The chamber from which
    our specimen was taken, was said to be very rich in such illustrations;
    the walls being completely covered with fresco paintings and bas-reliefs,
    while statues, vases, and Mosaic work of rich patterns, indicated the vast
    wealth of the deceased.
</p>
<p>
    The treasure had been deposited in the Museum precisely in the same
    condition in which Captain Sabretash had found it;&mdash;that is to say,
    the coffin had not been disturbed. For eight years it had thus stood,
    subject only externally to public inspection. We had now, therefore, the
    complete Mummy at our disposal; and to those who are aware how very rarely
    the unransacked antique reaches our shores, it will be evident, at once
    that we had great reason to congratulate ourselves upon our good fortune.
</p>
<p>
    Approaching the table, I saw on it a large box, or case, nearly seven feet
    long, and perhaps three feet wide, by two feet and a half deep. It was
    oblong&mdash;not coffin-shaped. The material was at first supposed to be
    the wood of the sycamore (<i>platanus</i>), but, upon cutting into it, we
    found it to be pasteboard, or, more properly, <i>papier mache</i>,
    composed of papyrus. It was thickly ornamented with paintings,
    representing funeral scenes, and other mournful subjects&mdash;interspersed
    among which, in every variety of position, were certain series of
    hieroglyphical characters, intended, no doubt, for the name of the
    departed. By good luck, Mr. Gliddon formed one of our party; and he had no
    difficulty in translating the letters, which were simply phonetic, and
    represented the word <i>Allamistakeo</i>.
</p>
<p>
    We had some difficulty in getting this case open without injury; but
    having at length accomplished the task, we came to a second,
    coffin-shaped, and very considerably less in size than the exterior one,
    but resembling it precisely in every other respect. The interval between
    the two was filled with resin, which had, in some degree, defaced the
    colors of the interior box.
</p>
<p>
    Upon opening this latter (which we did quite easily), we arrived at a
    third case, also coffin-shaped, and varying from the second one in no
    particular, except in that of its material, which was cedar, and still
    emitted the peculiar and highly aromatic odor of that wood. Between the
    second and the third case there was no interval&mdash;the one fitting
    accurately within the other.
</p>
<p>
    Removing the third case, we discovered and took out the body itself. We
    had expected to find it, as usual, enveloped in frequent rolls, or
    bandages, of linen; but, in place of these, we found a sort of sheath,
    made of papyrus, and coated with a layer of plaster, thickly gilt and
    painted. The paintings represented subjects connected with the various
    supposed duties of the soul, and its presentation to different divinities,
    with numerous identical human figures, intended, very probably, as
    portraits of the persons embalmed. Extending from head to foot was a
    columnar, or perpendicular, inscription, in phonetic hieroglyphics, giving
    again his name and titles, and the names and titles of his relations.
</p>
<p>
    Around the neck thus ensheathed, was a collar of cylindrical glass beads,
    diverse in color, and so arranged as to form images of deities, of the
    scarabaeus, etc, with the winged globe. Around the small of the waist was
    a similar collar or belt.
</p>
<p>
    Stripping off the papyrus, we found the flesh in excellent preservation,
    with no perceptible odor. The color was reddish. The skin was hard,
    smooth, and glossy. The teeth and hair were in good condition. The eyes
    (it seemed) had been removed, and glass ones substituted, which were very
    beautiful and wonderfully life-like, with the exception of somewhat too
    determined a stare. The fingers and the nails were brilliantly gilded.
</p>
<p>
    Mr. Gliddon was of opinion, from the redness of the epidermis, that the
    embalmment had been effected altogether by asphaltum; but, on scraping the
    surface with a steel instrument, and throwing into the fire some of the
    powder thus obtained, the flavor of camphor and other sweet-scented gums
    became apparent.
</p>
<p>
    We searched the corpse very carefully for the usual openings through which
    the entrails are extracted, but, to our surprise, we could discover none.
    No member of the party was at that period aware that entire or unopened
    mummies are not infrequently met. The brain it was customary to withdraw
    through the nose; the intestines through an incision in the side; the body
    was then shaved, washed, and salted; then laid aside for several weeks,
    when the operation of embalming, properly so called, began.
</p>
<p>
    As no trace of an opening could be found, Doctor Ponnonner was preparing
    his instruments for dissection, when I observed that it was then past two
    o&rsquo;clock. Hereupon it was agreed to postpone the internal examination until
    the next evening; and we were about to separate for the present, when some
    one suggested an experiment or two with the Voltaic pile.
</p>
<p>
    The application of electricity to a mummy three or four thousand years old
    at the least, was an idea, if not very sage, still sufficiently original,
    and we all caught it at once. About one-tenth in earnest and nine-tenths
    in jest, we arranged a battery in the Doctor&rsquo;s study, and conveyed thither
    the Egyptian.
</p>
<p>
    It was only after much trouble that we succeeded in laying bare some
    portions of the temporal muscle which appeared of less stony rigidity than
    other parts of the frame, but which, as we had anticipated, of course,
    gave no indication of galvanic susceptibility when brought in contact with
    the wire. This, the first trial, indeed, seemed decisive, and, with a
    hearty laugh at our own absurdity, we were bidding each other good night,
    when my eyes, happening to fall upon those of the Mummy, were there
    immediately riveted in amazement. My brief glance, in fact, had sufficed
    to assure me that the orbs which we had all supposed to be glass, and
    which were originally noticeable for a certain wild stare, were now so far
    covered by the lids, that only a small portion of the <i>tunica albuginea</i>
    remained visible.
</p>
<p>
    With a shout I called attention to the fact, and it became immediately
    obvious to all.
</p>
<p>
    I cannot say that I was alarmed at the phenomenon, because &ldquo;alarmed&rdquo; is,
    in my case, not exactly the word. It is possible, however, that, but for
    the Brown Stout, I might have been a little nervous. As for the rest of
    the company, they really made no attempt at concealing the downright
    fright which possessed them. Doctor Ponnonner was a man to be pitied. Mr.
    Gliddon, by some peculiar process, rendered himself invisible. Mr. Silk
    Buckingham, I fancy, will scarcely be so bold as to deny that he made his
    way, upon all fours, under the table.
</p>
<p>
    After the first shock of astonishment, however, we resolved, as a matter
    of course, upon further experiment forthwith. Our operations were now
    directed against the great toe of the right foot. We made an incision over
    the outside of the exterior <i>os sesamoideum pollicis pedis,</i> and thus
    got at the root of the abductor muscle. Readjusting the battery, we now
    applied the fluid to the bisected nerves&mdash;when, with a movement of
    exceeding life-likeness, the Mummy first drew up its right knee so as to
    bring it nearly in contact with the abdomen, and then, straightening the
    limb with inconceivable force, bestowed a kick upon Doctor Ponnonner,
    which had the effect of discharging that gentleman, like an arrow from a
    catapult, through a window into the street below.
</p>
<p>
    We rushed out <i>en masse</i> to bring in the mangled remains of the
    victim, but had the happiness to meet him upon the staircase, coming up in
    an unaccountable hurry, brimful of the most ardent philosophy, and more
    than ever impressed with the necessity of prosecuting our experiment with
    vigor and with zeal.
</p>
<p>
    It was by his advice, accordingly, that we made, upon the spot, a profound
    incision into the tip of the subject&rsquo;s nose, while the Doctor himself,
    laying violent hands upon it, pulled it into vehement contact with the
    wire.
</p>
<p>
    Morally and physically&mdash;figuratively and literally&mdash;was the
    effect electric. In the first place, the corpse opened its eyes and winked
    very rapidly for several minutes, as does Mr. Barnes in the pantomime, in
    the second place, it sneezed; in the third, it sat upon end; in the
    fourth, it shook its fist in Doctor Ponnonner&rsquo;s face; in the fifth,
    turning to Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, it addressed them, in very
    capital Egyptian, thus:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I must say, gentlemen, that I am as much surprised as I am mortified at
    your behavior. Of Doctor Ponnonner nothing better was to be expected. He
    is a poor little fat fool who knows no better. I pity and forgive him. But
    you, Mr. Gliddon&mdash;and you, Silk&mdash;who have travelled and resided
    in Egypt until one might imagine you to the manner born&mdash;you, I say
    who have been so much among us that you speak Egyptian fully as well, I
    think, as you write your mother tongue&mdash;you, whom I have always been
    led to regard as the firm friend of the mummies&mdash;I really did
    anticipate more gentlemanly conduct from you. What am I to think of your
    standing quietly by and seeing me thus unhandsomely used? What am I to
    suppose by your permitting Tom, Dick, and Harry to strip me of my coffins,
    and my clothes, in this wretchedly cold climate? In what light (to come to
    the point) am I to regard your aiding and abetting that miserable little
    villain, Doctor Ponnonner, in pulling me by the nose?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    It will be taken for granted, no doubt, that upon hearing this speech
    under the circumstances, we all either made for the door, or fell into
    violent hysterics, or went off in a general swoon. One of these three
    things was, I say, to be expected. Indeed each and all of these lines of
    conduct might have been very plausibly pursued. And, upon my word, I am at
    a loss to know how or why it was that we pursued neither the one nor the
    other. But, perhaps, the true reason is to be sought in the spirit of the
    age, which proceeds by the rule of contraries altogether, and is now
    usually admitted as the solution of every thing in the way of paradox and
    impossibility. Or, perhaps, after all, it was only the Mummy&rsquo;s exceedingly
    natural and matter-of-course air that divested his words of the terrible.
    However this may be, the facts are clear, and no member of our party
    betrayed any very particular trepidation, or seemed to consider that any
    thing had gone very especially wrong.
</p>
<p>
    For my part I was convinced it was all right, and merely stepped aside,
    out of the range of the Egyptian&rsquo;s fist. Doctor Ponnonner thrust his hands
    into his breeches&rsquo; pockets, looked hard at the Mummy, and grew excessively
    red in the face. Mr. Glidden stroked his whiskers and drew up the collar
    of his shirt. Mr. Buckingham hung down his head, and put his right thumb
    into the left corner of his mouth.
</p>
<p>
    The Egyptian regarded him with a severe countenance for some minutes and
    at length, with a sneer, said:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you speak, Mr. Buckingham? Did you hear what I asked you, or
    not? Do take your thumb out of your mouth!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Mr. Buckingham, hereupon, gave a slight start, took his right thumb out of
    the left corner of his mouth, and, by way of indemnification inserted his
    left thumb in the right corner of the aperture above-mentioned.
</p>
<p>
    Not being able to get an answer from Mr. B., the figure turned peevishly
    to Mr. Gliddon, and, in a peremptory tone, demanded in general terms what
    we all meant.
</p>
<p>
    Mr. Gliddon replied at great length, in phonetics; and but for the
    deficiency of American printing-offices in hieroglyphical type, it would
    afford me much pleasure to record here, in the original, the whole of his
    very excellent speech.
</p>
<p>
    I may as well take this occasion to remark, that all the subsequent
    conversation in which the Mummy took a part, was carried on in primitive
    Egyptian, through the medium (so far as concerned myself and other
    untravelled members of the company)&mdash;through the medium, I say, of
    Messieurs Gliddon and Buckingham, as interpreters. These gentlemen spoke
    the mother tongue of the Mummy with inimitable fluency and grace; but I
    could not help observing that (owing, no doubt, to the introduction of
    images entirely modern, and, of course, entirely novel to the stranger)
    the two travellers were reduced, occasionally, to the employment of
    sensible forms for the purpose of conveying a particular meaning. Mr.
    Gliddon, at one period, for example, could not make the Egyptian
    comprehend the term &ldquo;politics,&rdquo; until he sketched upon the wall, with a
    bit of charcoal a little carbuncle-nosed gentleman, out at elbows,
    standing upon a stump, with his left leg drawn back, right arm thrown
    forward, with his fist shut, the eyes rolled up toward Heaven, and the
    mouth open at an angle of ninety degrees. Just in the same way Mr.
    Buckingham failed to convey the absolutely modern idea &ldquo;wig,&rdquo; until (at
    Doctor Ponnonner&rsquo;s suggestion) he grew very pale in the face, and
    consented to take off his own.
</p>
<p>
    It will be readily understood that Mr. Gliddon&rsquo;s discourse turned chiefly
    upon the vast benefits accruing to science from the unrolling and
    disembowelling of mummies; apologizing, upon this score, for any
    disturbance that might have been occasioned him, in particular, the
    individual Mummy called Allamistakeo; and concluding with a mere hint (for
    it could scarcely be considered more) that, as these little matters were
    now explained, it might be as well to proceed with the investigation
    intended. Here Doctor Ponnonner made ready his instruments.
</p>
<p>
    In regard to the latter suggestions of the orator, it appears that
    Allamistakeo had certain scruples of conscience, the nature of which I did
    not distinctly learn; but he expressed himself satisfied with the
    apologies tendered, and, getting down from the table, shook hands with the
    company all round.
</p>
<p>
    When this ceremony was at an end, we immediately busied ourselves in
    repairing the damages which our subject had sustained from the scalpel. We
    sewed up the wound in his temple, bandaged his foot, and applied a square
    inch of black plaster to the tip of his nose.
</p>
<p>
    It was now observed that the Count (this was the title, it seems, of
    Allamistakeo) had a slight fit of shivering&mdash;no doubt from the cold.
    The Doctor immediately repaired to his wardrobe, and soon returned with a
    black dress coat, made in Jennings&rsquo; best manner, a pair of sky-blue plaid
    pantaloons with straps, a pink gingham chemise, a flapped vest of brocade,
    a white sack overcoat, a walking cane with a hook, a hat with no brim,
    patent-leather boots, straw-colored kid gloves, an eye-glass, a pair of
    whiskers, and a waterfall cravat. Owing to the disparity of size between
    the Count and the doctor (the proportion being as two to one), there was
    some little difficulty in adjusting these habiliments upon the person of
    the Egyptian; but when all was arranged, he might have been said to be
    dressed. Mr. Gliddon, therefore, gave him his arm, and led him to a
    comfortable chair by the fire, while the Doctor rang the bell upon the
    spot and ordered a supply of cigars and wine.
</p>
<p>
    The conversation soon grew animated. Much curiosity was, of course,
    expressed in regard to the somewhat remarkable fact of Allamistakeo&rsquo;s
    still remaining alive.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I should have thought,&rdquo; observed Mr. Buckingham, &ldquo;that it is high time
    you were dead.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Why,&rdquo; replied the Count, very much astonished, &ldquo;I am little more than
    seven hundred years old! My father lived a thousand, and was by no means
    in his dotage when he died.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Here ensued a brisk series of questions and computations, by means of
    which it became evident that the antiquity of the Mummy had been grossly
    misjudged. It had been five thousand and fifty years and some months since
    he had been consigned to the catacombs at Eleithias.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;But my remark,&rdquo; resumed Mr. Buckingham, &ldquo;had no reference to your age at
    the period of interment (I am willing to grant, in fact, that you are
    still a young man), and my illusion was to the immensity of time during
    which, by your own showing, you must have been done up in asphaltum.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;In what?&rdquo; said the Count.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;In asphaltum,&rdquo; persisted Mr. B.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Ah, yes; I have some faint notion of what you mean; it might be made to
    answer, no doubt&mdash;but in my time we employed scarcely any thing else
    than the Bichloride of Mercury.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;But what we are especially at a loss to understand,&rdquo; said Doctor
    Ponnonner, &ldquo;is how it happens that, having been dead and buried in Egypt
    five thousand years ago, you are here to-day all alive and looking so
    delightfully well.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Had I been, as you say, dead,&rdquo; replied the Count, &ldquo;it is more than
    probable that dead, I should still be; for I perceive you are yet in the
    infancy of Calvanism, and cannot accomplish with it what was a common
    thing among us in the old days. But the fact is, I fell into catalepsy,
    and it was considered by my best friends that I was either dead or should
    be; they accordingly embalmed me at once&mdash;I presume you are aware of
    the chief principle of the embalming process?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Why not altogether.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Why, I perceive&mdash;a deplorable condition of ignorance! Well I cannot
    enter into details just now: but it is necessary to explain that to embalm
    (properly speaking), in Egypt, was to arrest indefinitely all the animal
    functions subjected to the process. I use the word &lsquo;animal&rsquo; in its widest
    sense, as including the physical not more than the moral and vital being.
    I repeat that the leading principle of embalmment consisted, with us, in
    the immediately arresting, and holding in perpetual abeyance, all the
    animal functions subjected to the process. To be brief, in whatever
    condition the individual was, at the period of embalmment, in that
    condition he remained. Now, as it is my good fortune to be of the blood of
    the Scarabaeus, I was embalmed alive, as you see me at present.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The blood of the Scarabaeus!&rdquo; exclaimed Doctor Ponnonner.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Yes. The Scarabaeus was the insignium or the &lsquo;arms,&rsquo; of a very
    distinguished and very rare patrician family. To be &lsquo;of the blood of the
    Scarabaeus,&rsquo; is merely to be one of that family of which the Scarabaeus is
    the insignium. I speak figuratively.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;But what has this to do with you being alive?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Why, it is the general custom in Egypt to deprive a corpse, before
    embalmment, of its bowels and brains; the race of the Scarabaei alone did
    not coincide with the custom. Had I not been a Scarabeus, therefore, I
    should have been without bowels and brains; and without either it is
    inconvenient to live.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I perceive that,&rdquo; said Mr. Buckingham, &ldquo;and I presume that all the entire
    mummies that come to hand are of the race of Scarabaei.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Beyond doubt.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I thought,&rdquo; said Mr. Gliddon, very meekly, &ldquo;that the Scarabaeus was one
    of the Egyptian gods.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;One of the Egyptian <i>what?&rdquo;</i> exclaimed the Mummy, starting to its
    feet.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Gods!&rdquo; repeated the traveller.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Mr. Gliddon, I really am astonished to hear you talk in this style,&rdquo; said
    the Count, resuming his chair. &ldquo;No nation upon the face of the earth has
    ever acknowledged more than one god. The Scarabaeus, the Ibis, etc., were
    with us (as similar creatures have been with others) the symbols, or
    media, through which we offered worship to the Creator too august to be
    more directly approached.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    There was here a pause. At length the colloquy was renewed by Doctor
    Ponnonner.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;It is not improbable, then, from what you have explained,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that
    among the catacombs near the Nile there may exist other mummies of the
    Scarabaeus tribe, in a condition of vitality?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;There can be no question of it,&rdquo; replied the Count; &ldquo;all the Scarabaei
    embalmed accidentally while alive, are alive now. Even some of those
    purposely so embalmed, may have been overlooked by their executors, and
    still remain in the tomb.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Will you be kind enough to explain,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;what you mean by &lsquo;purposely
    so embalmed&rsquo;?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;With great pleasure!&rdquo; answered the Mummy, after surveying me leisurely
    through his eye-glass&mdash;for it was the first time I had ventured to
    address him a direct question.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;With great pleasure,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;The usual duration of man&rsquo;s life, in my
    time, was about eight hundred years. Few men died, unless by most
    extraordinary accident, before the age of six hundred; few lived longer
    than a decade of centuries; but eight were considered the natural term.
    After the discovery of the embalming principle, as I have already
    described it to you, it occurred to our philosophers that a laudable
    curiosity might be gratified, and, at the same time, the interests of
    science much advanced, by living this natural term in installments. In the
    case of history, indeed, experience demonstrated that something of this
    kind was indispensable. An historian, for example, having attained the age
    of five hundred, would write a book with great labor and then get himself
    carefully embalmed; leaving instructions to his executors pro tem., that
    they should cause him to be revivified after the lapse of a certain period&mdash;say
    five or six hundred years. Resuming existence at the expiration of this
    time, he would invariably find his great work converted into a species of
    hap-hazard note-book&mdash;that is to say, into a kind of literary arena
    for the conflicting guesses, riddles, and personal squabbles of whole
    herds of exasperated commentators. These guesses, etc., which passed under
    the name of annotations, or emendations, were found so completely to have
    enveloped, distorted, and overwhelmed the text, that the author had to go
    about with a lantern to discover his own book. When discovered, it was
    never worth the trouble of the search. After re-writing it throughout, it
    was regarded as the bounden duty of the historian to set himself to work
    immediately in correcting, from his own private knowledge and experience,
    the traditions of the day concerning the epoch at which he had originally
    lived. Now this process of re-scription and personal rectification,
    pursued by various individual sages from time to time, had the effect of
    preventing our history from degenerating into absolute fable.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I beg your pardon,&rdquo; said Doctor Ponnonner at this point, laying his hand
    gently upon the arm of the Egyptian&mdash;&ldquo;I beg your pardon, sir, but may
    I presume to interrupt you for one moment?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;By all means, sir,&rdquo; replied the Count, drawing up.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I merely wished to ask you a question,&rdquo; said the Doctor. &ldquo;You mentioned
    the historian&rsquo;s personal correction of traditions respecting his own
    epoch. Pray, sir, upon an average what proportion of these Kabbala were
    usually found to be right?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The Kabbala, as you properly term them, sir, were generally discovered to
    be precisely on a par with the facts recorded in the un-re-written
    histories themselves;&mdash;that is to say, not one individual iota of
    either was ever known, under any circumstances, to be not totally and
    radically wrong.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;But since it is quite clear,&rdquo; resumed the Doctor, &ldquo;that at least five
    thousand years have elapsed since your entombment, I take it for granted
    that your histories at that period, if not your traditions were
    sufficiently explicit on that one topic of universal interest, the
    Creation, which took place, as I presume you are aware, only about ten
    centuries before.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Sir!&rdquo; said the Count Allamistakeo.
</p>
<p>
    The Doctor repeated his remarks, but it was only after much additional
    explanation that the foreigner could be made to comprehend them. The
    latter at length said, hesitatingly:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The ideas you have suggested are to me, I confess, utterly novel. During
    my time I never knew any one to entertain so singular a fancy as that the
    universe (or this world if you will have it so) ever had a beginning at
    all. I remember once, and once only, hearing something remotely hinted, by
    a man of many speculations, concerning the origin <i>of the human race;</i>
    and by this individual, the very word <i>Adam</i> (or Red Earth), which
    you make use of, was employed. He employed it, however, in a generical
    sense, with reference to the spontaneous germination from rank soil (just
    as a thousand of the lower genera of creatures are germinated)&mdash;the
    spontaneous germination, I say, of five vast hordes of men, simultaneously
    upspringing in five distinct and nearly equal divisions of the globe.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Here, in general, the company shrugged their shoulders, and one or two of
    us touched our foreheads with a very significant air. Mr. Silk Buckingham,
    first glancing slightly at the occiput and then at the sinciput of
    Allamistakeo, spoke as follows:
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The long duration of human life in your time, together with the
    occasional practice of passing it, as you have explained, in installments,
    must have had, indeed, a strong tendency to the general development and
    conglomeration of knowledge. I presume, therefore, that we are to
    attribute the marked inferiority of the old Egyptians in all particulars
    of science, when compared with the moderns, and more especially with the
    Yankees, altogether to the superior solidity of the Egyptian skull.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I confess again,&rdquo; replied the Count, with much suavity, &ldquo;that I am
    somewhat at a loss to comprehend you; pray, to what particulars of science
    do you allude?&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    Here our whole party, joining voices, detailed, at great length, the
    assumptions of phrenology and the marvels of animal magnetism.
</p>
<p>
    Having heard us to an end, the Count proceeded to relate a few anecdotes,
    which rendered it evident that prototypes of Gall and Spurzheim had
    flourished and faded in Egypt so long ago as to have been nearly
    forgotten, and that the manoeuvres of Mesmer were really very contemptible
    tricks when put in collation with the positive miracles of the Theban
    savans, who created lice and a great many other similar things.
</p>
<p>
    I here asked the Count if his people were able to calculate eclipses. He
    smiled rather contemptuously, and said they were.
</p>
<p>
    This put me a little out, but I began to make other inquiries in regard to
    his astronomical knowledge, when a member of the company, who had never as
    yet opened his mouth, whispered in my ear, that for information on this
    head, I had better consult Ptolemy (whoever Ptolemy is), as well as one
    Plutarch de facie lunae.
</p>
<p>
    I then questioned the Mummy about burning-glasses and lenses, and, in
    general, about the manufacture of glass; but I had not made an end of my
    queries before the silent member again touched me quietly on the elbow,
    and begged me for God&rsquo;s sake to take a peep at Diodorus Siculus. As for
    the Count, he merely asked me, in the way of reply, if we moderns
    possessed any such microscopes as would enable us to cut cameos in the
    style of the Egyptians. While I was thinking how I should answer this
    question, little Doctor Ponnonner committed himself in a very
    extraordinary way.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Look at our architecture!&rdquo; he exclaimed, greatly to the indignation of
    both the travellers, who pinched him black and blue to no purpose.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Look,&rdquo; he cried with enthusiasm, &ldquo;at the Bowling-Green Fountain in New
    York! or if this be too vast a contemplation, regard for a moment the
    Capitol at Washington, D. C.!&rdquo;&mdash;and the good little medical man went
    on to detail very minutely, the proportions of the fabric to which he
    referred. He explained that the portico alone was adorned with no less
    than four and twenty columns, five feet in diameter, and ten feet apart.
</p>
<p>
    The Count said that he regretted not being able to remember, just at that
    moment, the precise dimensions of any one of the principal buildings of
    the city of Aznac, whose foundations were laid in the night of Time, but
    the ruins of which were still standing, at the epoch of his entombment, in
    a vast plain of sand to the westward of Thebes. He recollected, however,
    (talking of the porticoes,) that one affixed to an inferior palace in a
    kind of suburb called Carnac, consisted of a hundred and forty-four
    columns, thirty-seven feet in circumference, and twenty-five feet apart.
    The approach to this portico, from the Nile, was through an avenue two
    miles long, composed of sphynxes, statues, and obelisks, twenty, sixty,
    and a hundred feet in height. The palace itself (as well as he could
    remember) was, in one direction, two miles long, and might have been
    altogether about seven in circuit. Its walls were richly painted all over,
    within and without, with hieroglyphics. He would not pretend to assert
    that even fifty or sixty of the Doctor&rsquo;s Capitols might have been built
    within these walls, but he was by no means sure that two or three hundred
    of them might not have been squeezed in with some trouble. That palace at
    Carnac was an insignificant little building after all. He (the Count),
    however, could not conscientiously refuse to admit the ingenuity,
    magnificence, and superiority of the Fountain at the Bowling Green, as
    described by the Doctor. Nothing like it, he was forced to allow, had ever
    been seen in Egypt or elsewhere.
</p>
<p>
    I here asked the Count what he had to say to our railroads.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;in particular.&rdquo; They were rather slight, rather
    ill-conceived, and clumsily put together. They could not be compared, of
    course, with the vast, level, direct, iron-grooved causeways upon which
    the Egyptians conveyed entire temples and solid obelisks of a hundred and
    fifty feet in altitude.
</p>
<p>
    I spoke of our gigantic mechanical forces.
</p>
<p>
    He agreed that we knew something in that way, but inquired how I should
    have gone to work in getting up the imposts on the lintels of even the
    little palace at Carnac.
</p>
<p>
    This question I concluded not to hear, and demanded if he had any idea of
    Artesian wells; but he simply raised his eyebrows; while Mr. Gliddon
    winked at me very hard and said, in a low tone, that one had been recently
    discovered by the engineers employed to bore for water in the Great Oasis.
</p>
<p>
    I then mentioned our steel; but the foreigner elevated his nose, and asked
    me if our steel could have executed the sharp carved work seen on the
    obelisks, and which was wrought altogether by edge-tools of copper.
</p>
<p>
    This disconcerted us so greatly that we thought it advisable to vary the
    attack to Metaphysics. We sent for a copy of a book called the &ldquo;Dial,&rdquo; and
    read out of it a chapter or two about something that is not very clear,
    but which the Bostonians call the Great Movement of Progress.
</p>
<p>
    The Count merely said that Great Movements were awfully common things in
    his day, and as for Progress, it was at one time quite a nuisance, but it
    never progressed.
</p>
<p>
    We then spoke of the great beauty and importance of Democracy, and were at
    much trouble in impressing the Count with a due sense of the advantages we
    enjoyed in living where there was suffrage ad libitum, and no king.
</p>
<p>
    He listened with marked interest, and in fact seemed not a little amused.
    When we had done, he said that, a great while ago, there had occurred
    something of a very similar sort. Thirteen Egyptian provinces determined
    all at once to be free, and to set a magnificent example to the rest of
    mankind. They assembled their wise men, and concocted the most ingenious
    constitution it is possible to conceive. For a while they managed
    remarkably well; only their habit of bragging was prodigious. The thing
    ended, however, in the consolidation of the thirteen states, with some
    fifteen or twenty others, in the most odious and insupportable despotism
    that was ever heard of upon the face of the Earth.
</p>
<p>
    I asked what was the name of the usurping tyrant.
</p>
<p>
    As well as the Count could recollect, it was Mob.
</p>
<p>
    Not knowing what to say to this, I raised my voice, and deplored the
    Egyptian ignorance of steam.
</p>
<p>
    The Count looked at me with much astonishment, but made no answer. The
    silent gentleman, however, gave me a violent nudge in the ribs with his
    elbows&mdash;told me I had sufficiently exposed myself for once&mdash;and
    demanded if I was really such a fool as not to know that the modern
    steam-engine is derived from the invention of Hero, through Solomon de
    Caus.
</p>
<p>
    We were now in imminent danger of being discomfited; but, as good luck
    would have it, Doctor Ponnonner, having rallied, returned to our rescue,
    and inquired if the people of Egypt would seriously pretend to rival the
    moderns in the all&mdash;important particular of dress.
</p>
<p>
    The Count, at this, glanced downward to the straps of his pantaloons, and
    then taking hold of the end of one of his coat-tails, held it up close to
    his eyes for some minutes. Letting it fall, at last, his mouth extended
    itself very gradually from ear to ear; but I do not remember that he said
    any thing in the way of reply.
</p>
<p>
    Hereupon we recovered our spirits, and the Doctor, approaching the Mummy
    with great dignity, desired it to say candidly, upon its honor as a
    gentleman, if the Egyptians had comprehended, at any period, the
    manufacture of either Ponnonner&rsquo;s lozenges or Brandreth&rsquo;s pills.
</p>
<p>
    We looked, with profound anxiety, for an answer&mdash;but in vain. It was
    not forthcoming. The Egyptian blushed and hung down his head. Never was
    triumph more consummate; never was defeat borne with so ill a grace.
    Indeed, I could not endure the spectacle of the poor Mummy&rsquo;s
    mortification. I reached my hat, bowed to him stiffly, and took leave.
</p>
<p>
    Upon getting home I found it past four o&rsquo;clock, and went immediately to
    bed. It is now ten A.M. I have been up since seven, penning these
    memoranda for the benefit of my family and of mankind. The former I shall
    behold no more. My wife is a shrew. The truth is, I am heartily sick of
    this life and of the nineteenth century in general. I am convinced that
    every thing is going wrong. Besides, I am anxious to know who will be
    President in 2045. As soon, therefore, as I shave and swallow a cup of
    coffee, I shall just step over to Ponnonner&rsquo;s and get embalmed for a
    couple of hundred years.
</p>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE POETIC PRINCIPLE
</h2>
<p>
    IN speaking of the Poetic Principle, I have no design to be either
    thorough or profound. While discussing, very much at random, the
    essentiality of what we call Poetry, my principal purpose will be to cite
    for consideration, some few of those minor English or American poems which
    best suit my own taste, or which, upon my own fancy, have left the most
    definite impression. By &ldquo;minor poems&rdquo; I mean, of course, poems of little
    length. And here, in the beginning, permit me to say a few words in regard
    to a somewhat peculiar principle, which, whether rightfully or wrongfully,
    has always had its influence in my own critical estimate of the poem. I
    hold that a long poem does not exist. I maintain that the phrase, &ldquo;a long
    poem,&rdquo; is simply a flat contradiction in terms.
</p>
<p>
    I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it
    excites, by elevating the soul. The value of the poem is in the ratio of
    this elevating excitement. But all excitements are, through a psychal
    necessity, transient. That degree of excitement which would entitle a poem
    to be so called at all, cannot be sustained throughout a composition of
    any great length. After the lapse of half an hour, at the very utmost, it
    flags&mdash;fails&mdash;a revulsion ensues&mdash;and then the poem is, in
    effect, and in fact, no longer such.
</p>
<p>
    There are, no doubt, many who have found difficulty in reconciling the
    critical dictum that the &ldquo;Paradise Lost&rdquo; is to be devoutly admired
    throughout, with the absolute impossibility of maintaining for it, during
    perusal, the amount of enthusiasm which that critical dictum would demand.
    This great work, in fact, is to be regarded as poetical, only when, losing
    sight of that vital requisite in all works of Art, Unity, we view it
    merely as a series of minor poems. If, to preserve its Unity&mdash;its
    totality of effect or impression&mdash;we read it (as would be necessary)
    at a single sitting, the result is but a constant alternation of
    excitement and depression. After a passage of what we feel to be true
    poetry, there follows, inevitably, a passage of platitude which no
    critical prejudgment can force us to admire; but if, upon completing the
    work, we read it again, omitting the first book&mdash;that is to say,
    commencing with the second&mdash;we shall be surprised at now finding that
    admirable which we before condemned&mdash;that damnable which we had
    previously so much admired. It follows from all this that the ultimate,
    aggregate, or absolute effect of even the best epic under the sun, is a
    nullity:&mdash;and this is precisely the fact.
</p>
<p>
    In regard to the Iliad, we have, if not positive proof, at least very good
    reason for believing it intended as a series of lyrics; but, granting the
    epic intention, I can say only that the work is based in an imperfect
    sense of art. The modern epic is, of the supposititious ancient model, but
    an inconsiderate and blindfold imitation. But the day of these artistic
    anomalies is over. If, at any time, any very long poem <i>were </i>popular
    in reality, which I doubt, it is at least clear that no very long poem
    will ever be popular again.
</p>
<p>
    That the extent of a poetical work is, <i>ceteris paribus, </i>the measure
    of its merit, seems undoubtedly, when we thus state it, a proposition
    sufficiently absurd&mdash;yet we are indebted for it to the Quarterly
    Reviews. Surely there can be nothing in mere <i>size, </i>abstractly
    considered&mdash;there can be nothing in mere <i>bulk, so </i>far as a
    volume is concerned, which has so continuously elicited admiration from
    these saturnine pamphlets! A mountain, to be sure, by the mere sentiment
    of physical magnitude which it conveys, <i>does </i>impress us with a
    sense of the sublime&mdash;but no man is impressed after <i>this </i>fashion
    by the material grandeur of even &ldquo;The Columbiad.&rdquo; Even the Quarterlies
    have not instructed us to be so impressed by it. As <i>yet, </i>they have
    not <i>insisted </i>on our estimating &ldquo;Lamar&rdquo; tine by the cubic foot, or
    Pollock by the pound&mdash;but what else are we to <i>infer </i>from their
    continual plating about &ldquo;sustained effort&rdquo;? If, by &ldquo;sustained effort,&rdquo; any
    little gentleman has accomplished an epic, let us frankly commend him for
    the effort&mdash;if this indeed be a thing conk mendable&mdash;but let us
    forbear praising the epic on the effort&rsquo;s account. It is to be hoped that
    common sense, in the time to come, will prefer deciding upon a work of Art
    rather by the impression it makes&mdash;by the effect it produces&mdash;than
    by the time it took to impress the effect, or by the amount of &ldquo;sustained
    effort&rdquo; which had been found necessary in effecting the impression. The
    fact is, that perseverance is one thing and genius quite another&mdash;nor
    can all the Quarterlies in Christendom confound them. By and by, this
    proposition, with many which I have been just urging, will be received as
    self-evident. In the meantime, by being generally condemned as falsities,
    they will not be essentially damaged as truths.
</p>
<p>
    On the other hand, it is clear that a poem may be improperly brief. Undue
    brevity degenerates into mere epigrammatism. A very short poem, while now
    and then producing a brilliant or vivid, never produces a profound or
    enduring effect. There must be the steady pressing down of the stamp upon
    the wax. De Beranger has wrought innumerable things, pungent and
    spirit-stirring, but in general they have been too imponderous to stamp
    themselves deeply into the public attention, and thus, as so many feathers
    of fancy, have been blown aloft only to be whistled down the wind.
</p>
<p>
    A remarkable instance of the effect of undue brevity in depressing a poem,
    in keeping it out of the popular view, is afforded by the following
    exquisite little Serenade&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     I arise from dreams of thee
         In the first sweet sleep of night,
     When the winds are breathing low,
         And the stars are shining bright.
     I arise from dreams of thee,
         And a spirit in my feet
     Has led me&mdash;who knows how?&mdash;
         To thy chamber-window, sweet!

     The wandering airs they faint
         On the dark the silent stream&mdash;
     The champak odors fail
         Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
     The nightingale&rsquo;s complaint,
         It dies upon her heart,
     As I must die on shine,
         O, beloved as thou art!

     O, lift me from the grass!
         I die, I faint, I fail!
     Let thy love in kisses rain
         On my lips and eyelids pale.
     My cheek is cold and white, alas!
         My heart beats loud and fast:
     O, press it close to shine again,
         Where it will break at last.
</pre>
<p>
    Very few perhaps are familiar with these lines&mdash;yet no less a poet
    than Shelley is their author. Their warm, yet delicate and ethereal
    imagination will be appreciated by all, but by none so thoroughly as by
    him who has himself arisen from sweet dreams of one beloved to bathe in
    the aromatic air of a southern midsummer night.
</p>
<p>
    One of the finest poems by Willis&mdash;the very best in my opinion which
    he has ever written&mdash;has no doubt, through this same defect of undue
    brevity, been kept back from its proper position, not less in the
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     The shadows lay along Broadway,
         &lsquo;Twas near the twilight-tide&mdash;
     And slowly there a lady fair
         Was walking in her pride.
     Alone walk&rsquo;d she; but, viewlessly,
         Walk&rsquo;d spirits at her side.

     Peace charm&rsquo;d the street beneath her feet,
         And Honor charm&rsquo;d the air;
     And all astir looked kind on her,
         And called her good as fair&mdash;
     For all God ever gave to her
         She kept with chary care.

     She kept with care her beauties rare
         From lovers warm and true&mdash;
     For heart was cold to all but gold,
         And the rich came not to won,
     But honor&rsquo;d well her charms to sell.
         If priests the selling do.

     Now walking there was one more fair&mdash;
         A slight girl, lily-pale;
     And she had unseen company
         To make the spirit quail&mdash;
     &lsquo;Twixt Want and Scorn she walk&rsquo;d forlorn,
         And nothing could avail.

     No mercy now can clear her brow
         From this world&rsquo;s peace to pray
     For as love&rsquo;s wild prayer dissolved in air,
         Her woman&rsquo;s heart gave way!&mdash;
     But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven
         By man is cursed alway!
</pre>
<p>
    In this composition we find it difficult to recognize the Willis who has
    written so many mere &ldquo;verses of society.&rdquo; The lines are not only richly
    ideal, but full of energy, while they breathe an earnestness, an evident
    sincerity of sentiment, for which we look in vain throughout all the other
    works of this author.
</p>
<p>
    While the epic mania, while the idea that to merit in poetry prolixity is
    indispensable, has for some years past been gradually dying out of the
    public mind, by mere dint of its own absurdity, we find it succeeded by a
    heresy too palpably false to be long tolerated, but one which, in the
    brief period it has already endured, may be said to have accomplished more
    in the corruption of our Poetical Literature than all its other enemies
    combined. I allude to the heresy of <i>The Didactic. </i>It has been
    assumed, tacitly and avowedly, directly and indirectly, that the ultimate
    object of all Poetry is Truth. Every poem, it is said, should inculcate a
    morals and by this moral is the poetical merit of the work to be adjudged.
    We Americans especially have patronized this happy idea, and we Bostonians
    very especially have developed it in full. We have taken it into our heads
    that to write a poem simply for the poem&rsquo;s sake, and to acknowledge such
    to have been our design, would be to confess ourselves radically wanting
    in the true poetic dignity and force:&mdash;but the simple fact is that
    would we but permit ourselves to look into our own souls we should
    immediately there discover that under the sun there neither exists nor <i>can
</i>exist any work more thoroughly dignified, more supremely noble, than
    this very poem, this poem <i>per se, </i>this poem which is a poem and
    nothing more, this poem written solely for the poem&rsquo;s sake.
</p>
<p>
    With as deep a reverence for the True as ever inspired the bosom of man, I
    would nevertheless limit, in some measure, its modes of inculcation. I
    would limit to enforce them. I would not enfeeble them by dissipation. The
    demands of Truth are severe. She has no sympathy with the myrtles. All <i>that
</i>which is so indispensable in Song is precisely all <i>that </i>with
    which <i>she </i>has nothing whatever to do. It is but making her a
    flaunting paradox to wreathe her in gems and flowers. In enforcing a truth
    we need severity rather than efflorescence of language. We must be simple,
    precise, terse. We must be cool, calm, unimpassioned. In a word, we must
    be in that mood which, as nearly as possible, is the exact converse of the
    poetical. <i>He </i>must be blind indeed who does not perceive the radical
    and chasmal difference between the truthful and the poetical modes of
    inculcation. He must be theory-mad beyond redemption who, in spite of
    these differences, shall still persist in attempting to reconcile the
    obstinate oils and waters of Poetry and Truth.
</p>
<p>
    Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious
    distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I
    place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which in the
    mind it occupies. It holds intimate relations with either extreme; but
    from the Moral Sense is separated by so faint a difference that Aristotle
    has not hesitated to place some of its operations among the virtues
    themselves. Nevertheless we find the <i>offices </i>of the trio marked
    with a sufficient distinction. Just as the Intellect concerns itself with
    Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful, while the Moral Sense is
    regardful of Duty. Of this latter, while Conscience teaches the
    obligation, and Reason the expediency, Taste contents herself with
    displaying the charms:&mdash;waging war upon Vice solely on the ground of
    her deformity&mdash;her disproportion&mdash;her animosity to the fitting,
    to the appropriate, to the harmonious&mdash;in a word, to Beauty.
</p>
<p>
    An immortal instinct deep within the spirit of man is thus plainly a sense
    of the Beautiful. This it is which administers to his delight in the
    manifold forms, and sounds, and odors and sentiments amid which he exists.
    And just as the lily is repeated in the lake, or the eyes of Amaryllis in
    the mirror, so is the mere oral or written repetition of these forms, and
    sounds, and colors, and odors, and sentiments a duplicate source of the
    light. But this mere repetition is not poetry. He who shall simply sing,
    with however glowing enthusiasm, or with however vivid a truth of
    description, of the sights, and sounds, and odors, and colors, and
    sentiments which greet <i>him </i>in common with all mankind&mdash;he, I
    say, has yet failed to prove his divine title. There is still a something
    in the distance which he has been unable to attain. We have still a thirst
    unquenchable, to allay which he has not shown us the crystal springs. This
    thirst belongs to the immortality of Man. It is at once a consequence and
    an indication of his perennial existence. It is the desire of the moth for
    the star. It is no mere appreciation of the Beauty before us, but a wild
    effort to reach the Beauty above. Inspired by an ecstatic prescience of
    the glories beyond the grave, we struggle by multiform combinations among
    the things and thoughts of Time to attain a portion of that Loveliness
    whose very elements perhaps appertain to eternity alone. And thus when by
    Poetry, or when by Music, the most entrancing of the poetic moods, we find
    ourselves melted into tears, we weep then, not as the Abbate Gravina
    supposes, through excess of pleasure, but through a certain petulant,
    impatient sorrow at our inability to grasp now, wholly, here on earth, at
    once and for ever, those divine and rapturous joys of which <i>through&rsquo;
</i>the poem, or <i>through </i>the music, we attain to but brief and
    indeterminate glimpses.
</p>
<p>
    The struggle to apprehend the supernal Loveliness&mdash;this struggle, on
    the part of souls fittingly constituted&mdash;has given to the world all
    <i>that </i>which it (the world) has ever been enabled at once to
    understand and <i>to feel </i>as poetic.
</p>
<p>
    The Poetic Sentiment, of course, may develop itself in various modes&mdash;in
    Painting, in Sculpture, in Architecture, in the Dance&mdash;very
    especially in Music&mdash;and very peculiarly, and with a wide field, in
    the com position of the Landscape Garden. Our present theme, however, has
    regard only to its manifestation in words. And here let me speak briefly
    on the topic of rhythm. Contenting myself with the certainty that Music,
    in its various modes of metre, rhythm, and rhyme, is of so vast a moment
    in Poetry as never to be wisely rejected&mdash;is so vitally important an
    adjunct, that he is simply silly who declines its assistance, I will not
    now pause to maintain its absolute essentiality. It is in Music perhaps
    that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, when inspired
    by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles&mdash;the creation of supernal
    Beauty. It <i>may </i>be, indeed, that here this sublime end is, now and
    then, attained in <i>fact. </i>We are often made to feel, with a shivering
    delight, that from an earthly harp are stricken notes which <i>cannot </i>have
    been unfamiliar to the angels. And thus there can be little doubt that in
    the union of Poetry with Music in its popular sense, we shall find the
    widest field for the Poetic development. The old Bards and Minnesingers
    had advantages which we do not possess&mdash;and Thomas Moore, singing his
    own songs, was, in the most legitimate manner, perfecting them as poems.
</p>
<p>
    To recapitulate then:&mdash;I would define, in brief, the Poetry of words
    as <i>The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty. </i>Its sole arbiter is Taste.
    With the Intellect or with the Conscience it has only collateral
    relations. Unless incidentally, it has no concern whatever either with
    Duty or with Truth.
</p>
<p>
    A few words, however, in explanation. <i>That </i>pleasure which is at
    once the most pure, the most elevating, and the most intense, is derived,
    I maintain, from the contemplation of the Beautiful. In the contemplation
    of Beauty we alone find it possible to attain that pleasurable elevation,
    or excitement <i>of the soul, </i>which we recognize as the Poetic
    Sentiment, and which is so easily distinguished from Truth, which is the
    satisfaction of the Reason, or from Passion, which is the excitement of
    the heart. I make Beauty, therefore&mdash;using the word as inclusive of
    the sublime&mdash;I make Beauty the province of the poem, simply because
    it is an obvious rule of Art that effects should be made to spring as
    directly as possible from their causes:&mdash;no one as yet having been
    weak enough to deny that the peculiar elevation in question is at least <i>most
    readily </i>attainable in the poem. It by no means follows, however, that
    the incitements of Passion&rsquo; or the precepts of Duty, or even the lessons
    of Truth, may not be introduced into a poem, and with advantage; for they
    may subserve incidentally, in various ways, the general purposes of the
    work: but the true artist will always contrive to tone them down in proper
    subjection to that <i>Beauty </i>which is the atmosphere and the real
    essence of the poem.
</p>
<p>
    I cannot better introduce the few poems which I shall present for your
    consideration, than by the citation of the Proem to Longfellow&rsquo;s &ldquo;Waif&rdquo;:&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     The day is done, and the darkness
         Falls from the wings of Night,
     As a feather is wafted downward
         From an Eagle in his flight.

     I see the lights of the village
         Gleam through the rain and the mist,
     And a feeling of sadness comes o&rsquo;er me,
         That my soul cannot resist;

     A feeling of sadness and longing,
         That is not akin to pain,
     And resembles sorrow only
         As the mist resembles the rain.

     Come, read to me some poem,
         Some simple and heartfelt lay,
     That shall soothe this restless feeling,
         And banish the thoughts of day.

     Not from the grand old masters,
         Not from the bards sublime,
     Whose distant footsteps echo
         Through the corridors of Time.

     For, like strains of martial music,
         Their mighty thoughts suggest
     Life&rsquo;s endless toil and endeavor;
         And to-night I long for rest.

     Read from some humbler poet,
         Whose songs gushed from his heart,
     As showers from the clouds of summer,
         Or tears from the eyelids start;

     Who through long days of labor,
         And nights devoid of ease,
     Still heard in his soul the music
         Of wonderful melodies.

     Such songs have power to quiet
         The restless pulse of care,
     And come like the benediction
         That follows after prayer.

     Then read from the treasured volume
         The poem of thy choice,
     And lend to the rhyme of the poet
         The beauty of thy voice.

     And the night shall be filled with music,
         And the cares that infest the day
     Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,
         And as silently steal away.
</pre>
<p>
    With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired
    for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective.
    Nothing can be better than&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-the bards sublime,
         Whose distant footsteps echo
     Down the corridors of Time.
</pre>
<p>
    The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective. The poem on the
    whole, however, is chiefly to be admired for the graceful <i>insouciance
</i>of its metre, so well in accordance with the character of the
    sentiments, and especially for the <i>ease </i>of the general manner. This
    &ldquo;ease&rdquo; or naturalness, in a literary style, it has long been the fashion
    to regard as ease in appearance alone&mdash;as a point of really difficult
    attainment. But not so:&mdash;a natural manner is difficult only to him
    who should never meddle with it&mdash;to the unnatural. It is but the
    result of writing with the understanding, or with the instinct, that <i>the
    tone, </i>in composition, should always be that which the mass of mankind
    would adopt&mdash;and must perpetually vary, of course, with the occasion.
    The author who, after the fashion of &ldquo;The North American Review,&rdquo; should
    be upon <i>all </i>occasions merely &ldquo;quiet,&rdquo; must necessarily upon <i>many
</i>occasions be simply silly, or stupid; and has no more right to be
    considered &ldquo;easy&rdquo; or &ldquo;natural&rdquo; than a Cockney exquisite, or than the
    sleeping Beauty in the waxworks.
</p>
<p>
    Among the minor poems of Bryant, none has so much impressed me as the one
    which he entitles &ldquo;June.&rdquo; I quote only a portion of it:&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     There, through the long, long summer hours,
         The golden light should lie,
     And thick young herbs and groups of flowers
         Stand in their beauty by.
     The oriole should build and tell
     His love-tale, close beside my cell;
         The idle butterfly
     Should rest him there, and there be heard
     The housewife-bee and humming bird.

     And what, if cheerful shouts at noon,
         Come, from the village sent,
     Or songs of maids, beneath the moon,
         With fairy laughter blent?
     And what if, in the evening light,
     Betrothed lovers walk in sight
         Of my low monument?
     I would the lovely scene around
     Might know no sadder sight nor sound.

     I know, I know I should not see
         The season&rsquo;s glorious show,
     Nor would its brightness shine for me;
         Nor its wild music flow;
     But if, around my place of sleep,
     The friends I love should come to weep,
         They might not haste to go.
     Soft airs and song, and the light and bloom,
     Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

     These to their soften&rsquo;d hearts should bear
         The thoughts of what has been,
     And speak of one who cannot share
         The gladness of the scene;
     Whose part in all the pomp that fills
     The circuit of the summer hills,
         Is&mdash;that his grave is green;
     And deeply would their hearts rejoice
     To hear again his living voice.
</pre>
<p>
    The rhythmical flow here is even voluptuous&mdash;nothing could be more
    melodious. The poem has always affected me in a remarkable manner. The
    intense melancholy which seems to well up, perforce, to the surface of all
    the poet&rsquo;s cheerful sayings about his grave, we find thrilling us to the
    soul&mdash;while there is the truest poetic elevation in the thrill. The
    impression left is one of a pleasurable sadness. And if, in the remaining
    compositions which I shall introduce to you, there be more or less of a
    similar tone always apparent, let me remind you that (how or why we know
    not) this certain taint of sadness is inseparably connected with all the
    higher manifestations of true Beauty. It is, nevertheless,
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     A feeling of sadness and longing
         That is not akin to pain,
     And resembles sorrow only
         As the mist resembles the rain.
</pre>
<p>
    The taint of which I speak is clearly perceptible even in a poem so full
    of brilliancy and spirit as &ldquo;The Health&rdquo; of Edward Coate Pinckney:&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     I fill this cup to one made up
         Of loveliness alone,
     A woman, of her gentle sex
         The seeming paragon;
     To whom the better elements
         And kindly stars have given
     A form so fair that, like the air,
         &lsquo;Tis less of earth than heaven.

     Her every tone is music&rsquo;s own,
         Like those of morning birds,
     And something more than melody
         Dwells ever in her words;
     The coinage of her heart are they,
         And from her lips each flows
     As one may see the burden&rsquo;d bee
         Forth issue from the rose.

     Affections are as thoughts to her,
         The measures of her hours;
     Her feelings have the flagrancy,
         The freshness of young flowers;
     And lovely passions, changing oft,
         So fill her, she appears
     The image of themselves by turns,&mdash;
         The idol of past years!

     Of her bright face one glance will trace
         A picture on the brain,
     And of her voice in echoing hearts
         A sound must long remain;
     But memory, such as mine of her,
         So very much endears,
     When death is nigh my latest sigh
         Will not be life&rsquo;s, but hers.

     I fill&rsquo;d this cup to one made up
         Of loveliness alone,
     A woman, of her gentle sex
         The seeming paragon&mdash;
     Her health! and would on earth there stood,
         Some more of such a frame,
     That life might be all poetry,
         And weariness a name.
</pre>
<p>
    It was the misfortune of Mr. Pinckney to have been born too far south. Had
    he been a New Englander, it is probable that he would have been ranked as
    the first of American lyrists by that magnanimous cabal which has so long
    controlled the destinies of American Letters, in conducting the thing
    called &ldquo;The North American Review.&rdquo; The poem just cited is especially
    beautiful; but the poetic elevation which it induces we must refer chiefly
    to our sympathy in the poet&rsquo;s enthusiasm. We pardon his hyperboles for the
    evident earnestness with which they are uttered.
</p>
<p>
    It was by no means my design, however, to expatiate upon the <i>merits
</i>of what I should read you. These will necessarily speak for
    themselves. Boccalini, in his &ldquo;Advertisements from Parnassus,&rdquo; tells us
    that Zoilus once presented Apollo a very caustic criticism upon a very
    admirable book:&mdash;whereupon the god asked him for the beauties of the
    work. He replied that he only busied himself about the errors. On hearing
    this, Apollo, handing him a sack of unwinnowed wheat, bade him pick out <i>all
    the chaff </i>for his reward.
</p>
<p>
    Now this fable answers very well as a hit at the critics&mdash;but I am by
    no means sure that the god was in the right. I am by no means certain that
    the true limits of the critical duty are not grossly misunderstood.
    Excellence, in a poem especially, may be considered in the light of an
    axiom, which need only be properly <i>put, </i>to become self-evident. It
    is <i>not </i>excellence if it require to be demonstrated as such:&mdash;and
    thus to point out too particularly the merits of a work of Art, is to
    admit that they are <i>not </i>merits altogether.
</p>
<p>
    Among the &ldquo;Melodies&rdquo; of Thomas Moore is one whose distinguished character
    as a poem proper seems to have been singularly left out of view. I allude
    to his lines beginning&mdash;&ldquo;Come, rest in this bosom.&rdquo; The intense
    energy of their expression is not surpassed by anything in Byron. There
    are two of the lines in which a sentiment is conveyed that embodies the <i>all
    in all </i>of the divine passion of Love&mdash;a sentiment which, perhaps,
    has found its echo in more, and in more passionate, human hearts than any
    other single sentiment ever embodied in words:&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer
     Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
     Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o&rsquo;ercast,
     And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

     Oh! what was love made for, if &lsquo;tis not the same
     Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?
     I know not, I ask not, if guilt&rsquo;s in that heart,
     I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

     Thou hast call&rsquo;d me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
     And thy Angel I&rsquo;ll be, &lsquo;mid the horrors of this,&mdash;
     Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
     And shield thee, and save thee,&mdash;or perish there too!
</pre>
<p>
    It has been the fashion of late days to deny Moore Imagination, while
    granting him Fancy&mdash;a distinction originating with Coleridge&mdash;than
    whom no man more fully comprehended the great powers of Moore. The fact
    is, that the fancy of this poet so far predominates over all his other
    faculties, and over the fancy of all other men, as to have induced, very
    naturally, the idea that he is fanciful <i>only. </i>But never was there a
    greater mistake. Never was a grosser wrong done the fame of a true poet.
    In the compass of the English language I can call to mind no poem more
    profoundly&mdash;more weirdly <i>imaginative, </i>in the best sense, than
    the lines commencing&mdash;&ldquo;I would I were by that dim lake&rdquo;&mdash;which
    are the com. position of Thomas Moore. I regret that I am unable to
    remember them.
</p>
<p>
    One of the noblest&mdash;and, speaking of Fancy&mdash;one of the most
    singularly fanciful of modern poets, was Thomas Hood. His &ldquo;Fair Ines&rdquo; had
    always for me an inexpressible charm:&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     O saw ye not fair Ines?
         She&rsquo;s gone into the West,
     To dazzle when the sun is down,
         And rob the world of rest;
     She took our daylight with her,
         The smiles that we love best,
     With morning blushes on her cheek,
         And pearls upon her breast.

     O turn again, fair Ines,
         Before the fall of night,
     For fear the moon should shine alone,
         And stars unrivalltd bright;
     And blessed will the lover be
         That walks beneath their light,
     And breathes the love against thy cheek
         I dare not even write!

     Would I had been, fair Ines,
         That gallant cavalier,
     Who rode so gaily by thy side,
         And whisper&rsquo;d thee so near!
     Were there no bonny dames at home
         Or no true lovers here,
     That he should cross the seas to win
         The dearest of the dear?

     I saw thee, lovely Ines,
         Descend along the shore,
     With bands of noble gentlemen,
         And banners waved before;
     And gentle youth and maidens gay,
         And snowy plumes they wore;
     It would have been a beauteous dream,
         If it had been no more!

     Alas, alas, fair Ines,
         She went away with song,
     With music waiting on her steps,
         And shootings of the throng;
     But some were sad and felt no mirth,
         But only Music&rsquo;s wrong,
     In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
         To her you&rsquo;ve loved so long.

     Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
         That vessel never bore
     So fair a lady on its deck,
         Nor danced so light before,&mdash;
     Alas for pleasure on the sea,
         And sorrow on the shorel
     The smile that blest one lover&rsquo;s heart
         Has broken many more!
</pre>
<p>
    &ldquo;The Haunted House,&rdquo; by the same author, is one of the truest poems ever
    written,&mdash;one of the truest, one of the most unexceptionable, one of
    the most thoroughly artistic, both in its theme and in its execution. It
    is, moreover, powerfully ideal&mdash;imaginative. I regret that its length
    renders it unsuitable for the purposes of this lecture. In place of it
    permit me to offer the universally appreciated &ldquo;Bridge of Sighs&rdquo;:&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     One more Unfortunate,
     Weary of breath,
     Rashly importunate
     Gone to her death!

     Take her up tenderly,
     Lift her with care;&mdash;
     Fashion&rsquo;d so slenderly,
     Young and so fair!

     Look at her garments
     Clinging like cerements;
     Whilst the wave constantly
     Drips from her clothing;
     Take her up instantly,
     Loving not loathing.

     Touch her not scornfully;
     Think of her mournfully,
     Gently and humanly;
     Not of the stains of her,
     All that remains of her
     Now is pure womanly.

     Make no deep scrutiny
     Into her mutiny
     Rash and undutiful;
     Past all dishonor,
     Death has left on her
     Only the beautiful.

     Where the lamps quiver
     So far in the river,
     With many a light
     From window and casement
     From garret to basement,
     She stood, with amazement,
     Houseless by night.

     The bleak wind of March
     Made her tremble and shiver,
     But not the dark arch,
     Or the black flowing river:
     Mad from life&rsquo;s history,
     Glad to death&rsquo;s mystery,
     Swift to be hurl&rsquo;d&mdash;
     Anywhere, anywhere
     Out of the world!

     In she plunged boldly,
     No matter how coldly
     The rough river ran,&mdash;
     Over the brink of it,
     Picture it,&mdash;think of it,
     Dissolute Man!
     Lave in it, drink of it
     Then, if you can!

     Still, for all slips of hers,
     One of Eve&rsquo;s family&mdash;
     Wipe those poor lips of hers
     Oozing so clammily,
     Loop up her tresses
     Escaped from the comb,
     Her fair auburn tresses;
     Whilst wonderment guesses
     Where was her home?

     Who was her father?
     Who was her mother?
     Had she a sister?
     Had she a brother?
     Or was there a dearer one
     Still, and a nearer one
     Yet, than all other?

     Alas! for the rarity
     Of Christian charity
     Under the sun!
     Oh! it was pitiful!
     Near a whole city full,
     Home she had none.

     Sisterly, brotherly,
     Fatherly, motherly,
     Feelings had changed:
     Love, by harsh evidence,
     Thrown from its eminence;
     Even God&rsquo;s providence
     Seeming estranged.

     Take her up tenderly;
     Lift her with care;
     Fashion&rsquo;d so slenderly,
     Young, and so fair!
     Ere her limbs frigidly
     Stiffen too rigidly,
     Decently,&mdash;kindly,&mdash;
     Smooth and compose them;
     And her eyes, close them,
     Staring so blindly!

     Dreadfully staring
     Through muddy impurity,
     As when with the daring
     Last look of despairing
     Fixed on futurity.

     Perhishing gloomily,
     Spurred by contumely,
     Cold inhumanity,
     Burning insanity,
     Into her rest,&mdash;
     Cross her hands humbly,
     As if praying dumbly,
     Over her breast!
     Owning her weakness,
     Her evil behavior,
     And leaving, with meekness,
     Her sins to her Saviour!
</pre>
<p>
    The vigor of this poem is no less remarkable than its pathos. The
    versification although carrying the fanciful to the very verge of the
    fantastic, is nevertheless admirably adapted to the wild insanity which is
    the thesis of the poem.
</p>
<p>
    Among the minor poems of Lord Byron is one which has never received from
    the critics the praise which it undoubtedly deserves:&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Though the day of my destiny&rsquo;s over,
         And the star of my fate bath declined
     Thy soft heart refused to discover
         The faults which so many could find;
     Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted,
         It shrunk not to share it with me,
     And the love which my spirit bath painted
         It never bath found but in <i>thee.</i>

     Then when nature around me is smiling,
         The last smile which answers to mine,
     I do not believe it beguiling,
         Because it reminds me of shine;
     And when winds are at war with the ocean,
         As the breasts I believed in with me,
     If their billows excite an emotion,
         It is that they bear me from <i>thee.</i>

     Though the rock of my last hope is shivered,
         And its fragments are sunk in the wave,
     Though I feel that my soul is delivered
         To pain&mdash;it shall not be its slave.
     There is many a pang to pursue me:
         They may crush, but they shall not contemn&mdash;
     They may torture, but shall not subdue me&mdash;
         &lsquo;Tis of <i>thee </i>that I think&mdash;not of them.

     Though human, thou didst not deceive me,
         Though woman, thou didst not forsake,
     Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me,
         Though slandered, thou never couldst shake,&mdash;
     Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me,
         Though parted, it was not to fly,
     Though watchful, &lsquo;twas not to defame me,
         Nor mute, that the world might belie.

     Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it,
         Nor the war of the many with one&mdash;
     If my soul was not fitted to prize it,
         &lsquo;Twas folly not sooner to shun:
     And if dearly that error bath cost me,
         And more than I once could foresee,
     I have found that whatever it lost me,
         It could not deprive me of <i>thee.</i>

     From the wreck of the past, which bath perished,
         Thus much I at least may recall,
     It bath taught me that which I most cherished
         Deserved to be dearest of all:
     In the desert a fountain is springing,
         In the wide waste there still is a tree,
     And a bird in the solitude singing,
        Which speaks to my spirit of <i>thee.</i>
</pre>
<p>
    Although the rhythm here is one of the most difficult, the versification
    could scarcely be improved. No nobler <i>theme </i>ever engaged the pen of
    poet. It is the soul-elevating idea that no man can consider himself
    entitled to complain of Fate while in his adversity he still retains the
    unwavering love of woman.
</p>
<p>
    From Alfred Tennyson, although in perfect sincerity I regard him as the
    noblest poet that ever lived, I have left myself time to cite only a very
    brief specimen. I call him, and <i>think </i>him the noblest of poets, <i>not
</i>because the impressions he produces are at <i>all </i>times the most
    profound&mdash;<i>not </i>because the poetical excitement which he induces
    is at <i>all </i>times the most intense&mdash;but because it is at all
    times the most ethereal&mdash;in other words, the most elevating and most
    pure. No poet is so little of the earth, earthy. What I am about to read
    is from his last long poem, &ldquo;The Princess&rdquo;:&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
     Tears from the depth of some divine despair
     Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
     In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
     And thinking of the days that are no more.

         Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
     That brings our friends up from the underworld,
     Sad as the last which reddens over one
     That sinks with all we love below the verge;
     So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

         Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
     The earliest pipe of half-awaken&rsquo;d birds
     To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
     The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
     So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

         Dear as remember&rsquo;d kisses after death,
     And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign&rsquo;d
     On lips that are for others; deep as love,
     Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
     O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
</pre>
<p>
    Thus, although in a very cursory and imperfect manner, I have endeavored
    to convey to you my conception of the Poetic Principle. It has been my
    purpose to suggest that, while this principle itself is strictly and
    simply the Human Aspiration for Supernal Beauty, the manifestation of the
    Principle is always found in <i>an elevating excitement of the soul, </i>quite
    independent of that passion which is the intoxication of the Heart, or of
    that truth which is the satisfaction of the Reason. For in regard to
    passion, alas! its tendency is to degrade rather than to elevate the Soul.
    Love, on the contrary&mdash;Love&mdash;the true, the divine Eros&mdash;the
    Uranian as distinguished from the Diona an Venus&mdash;is unquestionably
    the purest and truest of all poetical themes. And in regard to Truth, if,
    to be sure, through the attainment of a truth we are led to perceive a
    harmony where none was apparent before, we experience at once the true
    poetical effect; but this effect is referable to the harmony alone, and
    not in the least degree to the truth which merely served to render the
    harmony manifest.
</p>
<p>
    We shall reach, however, more immediately a distinct conception of what
    the true Poetry is, by mere reference to a few of the simple elements
    which induce in the Poet himself the poetical effect He recognizes the
    ambrosia which nourishes his soul in the bright orbs that shine in Heaven&mdash;in
    the volutes of the flower&mdash;in the clustering of low shrubberies&mdash;in
    the waving of the grain-fields&mdash;in the slanting of tall eastern trees&mdash;in
    the blue distance of mountains&mdash;in the grouping of clouds&mdash;in
    the twinkling of half-hidden brooks&mdash;in the gleaming of silver rivers&mdash;in
    the repose of sequestered lakes&mdash;in the star-mirroring depths of
    lonely wells. He perceives it in the songs of birds&mdash;in the harp of
    Bolos&mdash;in the sighing of the night-wind&mdash;in the repining voice
    of the forest&mdash;in the surf that complains to the shore&mdash;in the
    fresh breath of the woods&mdash;in the scent of the violet&mdash;in the
    voluptuous perfume of the hyacinth&mdash;in the suggestive odour that
    comes to him at eventide from far distant undiscovered islands, over dim
    oceans, illimitable and unexplored. He owns it in all noble thoughts&mdash;in
    all unworldly motives&mdash;in all holy impulses&mdash;in all chivalrous,
    generous, and self-sacrificing deeds. He feels it in the beauty of woman&mdash;in
    the grace of her step&mdash;in the lustre of her eye&mdash;in the melody
    of her voice&mdash;in her soft laughter, in her sigh&mdash;in the harmony
    of the rustling of her robes. He deeply feels it in her winning
    endearments&mdash;in her burning enthusiasms&mdash;in her gentle charities&mdash;in
    her meek and devotional endurances&mdash;but above all&mdash;ah, far above
    all, he kneels to it&mdash;he worships it in the faith, in the purity, in
    the strength, in the altogether divine majesty&mdash;of her love.
</p>
<p>
    Let me conclude by&mdash;the recitation of yet another brief poem&mdash;one
    very different in character from any that I have before quoted. It is by
    Motherwell, and is called &ldquo;The Song of the Cavalier.&rdquo; With our modern and
    altogether rational ideas of the absurdity and impiety of warfare, we are
    not precisely in that frame of mind best adapted to sympathize with the
    sentiments, and thus to appreciate the real excellence of the poem. To do
    this fully we must identify ourselves in fancy with the soul of the old
    cavalier:&mdash;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all,
         And don your helmes amaine:
     Deathe&rsquo;s couriers. Fame and Honor call
         No shrewish teares shall fill your eye
     When the sword-hilt&rsquo;s in our hand,&mdash;
         Heart-whole we&rsquo;ll part, and no whit sighe
     For the fayrest of the land;
         Let piping swaine, and craven wight,
     Thus weepe and poling crye,
         Our business is like men to fight.
</pre>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    OLD ENGLISH POETRY (*)
</h2>
<p>
    IT should not be doubted that at least one-third of the affection with
    which we regard the elder poets of Great Britain should be-attributed to
    what is, in itself, a thing apart from poetry-we mean to the simple love
    of the antique-and that, again, a third of even the proper <i>poetic
    sentiment inspired</i>by their writings should be ascribed to a fact
    which, while it has strict connection with poetry in the abstract, and
    with the old British poems themselves, should not be looked upon as a
    merit appertaining to the authors of the poems. Almost every devout
    admirer of the old bards, if demanded his opinion of their productions,
    would mention vaguely, yet with perfect sincerity, a sense of dreamy,
    wild, indefinite, and he would perhaps say, indefinable delight; on being
    required to point out the source of this so shadowy pleasure, he would be
    apt to speak of the quaint in phraseology and in general handling. This
    quaintness is, in fact, a very powerful adjunct to ideality, but in the
    case in question it arises independently of the author&rsquo;s will, and is
    altogether apart from his intention. Words and their rhythm have varied.
    Verses which affect us to-day with a vivid delight, and which delight, in
    many instances, may be traced to the one source, quaintness, must have
    worn in the days of their construction, a very commonplace air. This is,
    of course, no argument against the poems now-we mean it only as against
    the poets <i>thew. </i>There is a growing desire to overrate them. The old
    English muse was frank, guileless, sincere, and although very learned,
    still learned without art. No general error evinces a more thorough
    confusion of ideas than the error of supposing Donne and Cowley
    metaphysical in the sense wherein Wordsworth and Coleridge are so. With
    the two former ethics were the end-with the two latter the means. The poet
    of the &ldquo;Creation&rdquo; wished, by highly artificial verse, to inculcate what he
    supposed to be moral truth-the poet of the &ldquo;Ancient Mariner&rdquo; to infuse the
    Poetic Sentiment through channels suggested by analysis. The one finished
    by complete failure what he commenced in the grossest misconception; the
    other, by a path which could not possibly lead him astray, arrived at a
    triumph which is not the less glorious because hidden from the profane
    eyes of the multitude. But in this view even the &ldquo;metaphysical verse&rdquo; of
    Cowley is but evidence of the simplicity and single-heartedness of the
    man. And he was in this but a type of his school-for we may as well
    designate in this way the entire class of writers whose poems are bound up
    in the volume before us, and throughout all of whom there runs a very
    perceptible general character. They used little art in composition. Their
    writings sprang immediately from the soul-and partook intensely of that
    soul&rsquo;s nature. Nor is it difficult to perceive the tendency of this <i>abandon-to
    elevate </i>immeasurably all the energies of mind-but, again, so to mingle
    the greatest possible fire, force, delicacy, and all good things, with the
    lowest possible bathos, baldness, and imbecility, as to render it not a
    matter of doubt that the average results of mind in such a school will be
    found inferior to those results in one <i>(ceteris </i>paribus) more
    artificial.
</p>
<p>
    We can not bring ourselves to believe that the selections of the &ldquo;Book of
    Gems&rdquo; are such as will impart to a poetical reader the clearest possible
    idea of the beauty of the school-but if the intention had been merely to
    show the school&rsquo;s character, the attempt might have been considered
    successful in the highest degree. There are long passages now before us of
    the most despicable trash, with no merit whatever beyond that of their
    antiquity.. The criticisms of the editor do not particularly please us.
    His enthusiasm is too general and too vivid not to be false. His opinion,
    for example, of Sir Henry Wotton&rsquo;s &ldquo;Verses on the Queen of Bohemia"-that
    &ldquo;there are few finer things in our language,&rdquo; is untenable and absurd.
</p>
<p>
    In such lines we can perceive not one of those higher attributes of Poesy
    which belong to her in all circumstances and throughout all time. Here
    every thing is art, nakedly, or but awkwardly concealed. No prepossession
    for the mere antique (and in this case we can imagine no other
    prepossession) should induce us to dignify with the sacred name of poetry,
    a series, such as this, of elaborate and threadbare compliments, stitched,
    apparently, together, without fancy, without plausibility, and without
    even an attempt at adaptation.
</p>
<p>
    In common with all the world, we have been much delighted with &ldquo;The
    Shepherd&rsquo;s Hunting&rdquo; by Withers&mdash;a poem partaking, in a remarkable
    degree, of the peculiarities of &ldquo;Il Penseroso.&rdquo; Speaking of Poesy the
    author says:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;By the murmur of a spring,
     Or the least boughs rustleling,
     By a daisy whose leaves spread,
     Shut when Titan goes to bed,
     Or a shady bush or tree,
     She could more infuse in me
     Than all Nature&rsquo;s beauties can
     In some other wiser man.
     By her help I also now
     Make this churlish place allow
     Something that may sweeten gladness
     In the very gall of sadness&mdash;
     The dull loneness, the black shade,
     That these hanging vaults have made
     The strange music of the waves
     Beating on these hollow caves,
     This black den which rocks emboss,
     Overgrown with eldest moss,
     The rude portals that give light
     More to terror than delight,
     This my chamber of neglect

     Walled about with disrespect;
     From all these and this dull air
     A fit object for despair,
     She hath taught me by her might
     To draw comfort and delight.&rdquo;
 </pre>
<p>
    But these lines, however good, do not bear with them much of the general
    character of the English antique. Something more of this will be found in
    Corbet&rsquo;s &ldquo;Farewell to the Fairies!&rdquo; We copy a portion of Marvell&rsquo;s &ldquo;Maiden
    lamenting for her Fawn,&rdquo; which we prefer-not only as a specimen of the
    elder poets, but in itself as a beautiful poem, abounding in pathos,
    exquisitely delicate imagination and truthfulness-to anything of its
    species:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;It is a wondrous thing how fleet
     &lsquo;Twas on those little silver feet,
     With what a pretty skipping grace
     It oft would challenge me the race,
     And when&rsquo;t had left me far away
     &lsquo;Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
     For it was nimbler much than hinds,
     And trod as if on the four winds.
     I have a garden of my own,
     But so with roses overgrown,
     And lilies, that you would it guess
     To be a little wilderness;
     And all the spring-time of the year
     It only loved to be there.
     Among the beds of lilies I
     Have sought it oft where it should lie,
     Yet could not, till itself would rise,
     Find it, although before mine eyes.
     For in the flaxen lilies&rsquo; shade
     It like a bank of lilies laid;
     Upon the roses it would feed
     Until its lips even seemed to bleed,
     And then to me &lsquo;twould boldly trip,
     And print those roses on my lip,
     But all its chief delight was still
     With roses thus itself to fill,
     And its pure virgin limbs to fold
     In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
     Had it lived long, it would have been
     Lilies without, roses within.&rdquo;
 </pre>
<p>
    How truthful an air of lamentations hangs here upon every syllable! It
    pervades all.. It comes over the sweet melody of the words-over the
    gentleness and grace which we fancy in the little maiden herself-even over
    the half-playful, half-petulant air with which she lingers on the beauties
    and good qualities of her favorite-like the cool shadow of a summer cloud
    over a bed of lilies and violets, &ldquo;and all sweet flowers.&rdquo; The whole is
    redolent with poetry of a very lofty order. Every line is an idea
    conveying either the beauty and playfulness of the fawn, or the
    artlessness of the maiden, or her love, or her admiration, or her grief,
    or the fragrance and warmth and <i>appropriateness </i>of the little
    nest-like bed of lilies and roses which the fawn devoured as it lay upon
    them, and could scarcely be distinguished from them by the once happy
    little damsel who went to seek her pet with an arch and rosy smile on her
    face. Consider the great variety of truthful and delicate thought in the
    few lines we have quoted the <i>wonder </i>of the little maiden at the
    fleetness of her favorite-the &ldquo;little silver feet&rdquo;&mdash;the fawn
    challenging his mistress to a race with &ldquo;a pretty skipping grace,&rdquo; running
    on before, and then, with head turned back, awaiting her approach only to
    fly from it again-can we not distinctly perceive all these things? How
    exceedingly vigorous, too, is the line,
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;And trod as if on the four winds!&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    A vigor apparent only when we keep in mind the artless character of the
    speaker and the four feet of the favorite, one for each wind. Then
    consider the garden of &ldquo;my own,&rdquo; so overgrown, entangled with roses and
    lilies, as to be &ldquo;a little wilderness&rdquo;&mdash;the fawn loving to be there,
    and there &ldquo;only&rdquo;&mdash;the maiden seeking it &ldquo;where it <i>should </i>lie&rdquo;&mdash;and
    not being able to distinguish it from the flowers until &ldquo;itself would
    rise&rdquo;&mdash;the lying among the lilies &ldquo;like a bank of lilies&rdquo;&mdash;the
    loving to &ldquo;fill itself with roses,&rdquo;
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        &ldquo;And its pure virgin limbs to fold
        In whitest sheets of lilies cold,&rdquo;
 </pre>
<p>
    and these things being its &ldquo;chief&rdquo; delights-and then the pre-eminent
    beauty and naturalness of the concluding lines, whose very hyperbole only
    renders them more true to nature when we consider the innocence, the
    artlessness, the enthusiasm, the passionate girl, and more passionate
    admiration of the bereaved child&mdash;
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Had it lived long, it would have been Lilies without, roses within.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    * &ldquo;Book of Gems,&rdquo; Edited by S. C. Hall
</p>
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    <br /><br /><br /><br />
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<h2>
    POEMS
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                        TO

            THE NOBLEST OF HER SEX

                  THE AUTHOR OF

            &ldquo;THE DRAMA OF EXILE&rdquo;&mdash;

                        TO

            MISS ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

                   OF ENGLAND

            <i>I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME</i>

      WITH THE MOST ENTHUSIASTIC ADMIRATION AND WITH

            THE MOST SINCERE ESTEEM

      1845                      E.A.P.
</pre>
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    <br /><br /><br /><br />
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<h2>
    PREFACE
</h2>
<p>
    THESE trifles are collected and republished chiefly with a view to their
    redemption from the many improvements to which they have been subjected
    while going at random the &ldquo;rounds of the press.&rdquo; I am naturally anxious
    that what I have written should circulate as I wrote it, if it circulate
    at all. In defence of my own taste, nevertheless, it is incumbent upon me
    to say that I think nothing in this volume of much value to the public, or
    very creditable to myself. Events not to be controlled have prevented me
    from making, at any time, any serious effort in what, under happier
    circumstances, would have been the field of my choice. With me poetry has
    been not a purpose, but a passion; and the passions should be held in
    reverence: they must not-they can not at will be excited, with an eye to
    the paltry compensations, or the more paltry commendations, of man-kind.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                           E. A. P.

   1845
</pre>
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    <br /><br /><br /><br />
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<h2>
    POEMS OF LATER LIFE
</h2>
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    <br /><br /><br /><br />
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<h2>
    THE RAVEN.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
 Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
 While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
 As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
 &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis some visiter,&rdquo; I muttered, &ldquo;tapping at my chamber door&mdash;
                          Only this, and nothing more.&rdquo;

 Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
 And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
 Eagerly I wished the morrow;&mdash;vainly I had sought to borrow
 From my books surcease of sorrow&mdash;sorrow for the lost Lenore&mdash;
 For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore&mdash;
                          Nameless here for evermore.

 And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
 Thrilled me&mdash;filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
 So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
 &ldquo;&lsquo;Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door&mdash;
 Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;&mdash;
                          This it is, and nothing more.&rdquo;

 Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
 &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
 But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
 And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
 That I scarce was sure I heard you &ldquo;&mdash;here I opened wide the door;&mdash;&mdash;
                          Darkness there and nothing more.

 Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
 Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
 But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
 And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, &ldquo;Lenore!&rdquo;
  This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, &ldquo;Lenore!&rdquo;&mdash;
                          Merely this, and nothing more.

 Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
 Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before.
 &ldquo;Surely,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;surely that is something at my window lattice;
 Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore&mdash;
 Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;&mdash;
                          &lsquo;Tis the wind and nothing more!&rdquo;

 Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
 In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
 Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopped or stayed he;
 But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door&mdash;
 Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door&mdash;
                          Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
 &ldquo;Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;art sure no craven,
 Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore&mdash;
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night&rsquo;s Plutonian shore!&rdquo;
                          Quoth the raven &ldquo;Nevermore.&rdquo;

 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
 Though its answer little meaning&mdash;little relevancy bore;
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door&mdash;
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
                         With such name as &ldquo;Nevermore.&rdquo;

 But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
 That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
 Nothing farther then he uttered&mdash;not a feather then he fluttered&mdash;
 Till I scarcely more than muttered &ldquo;Other friends have flown before&mdash;
 On the morrow <i>he</i> will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.&rdquo;
                          Then the bird said &ldquo;Nevermore.&rdquo;

 Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
 &ldquo;Doubtless,&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;what it utters is its only stock and store
 Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
 Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore&mdash;
 Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
                         Of &ldquo;Never&mdash;nevermore.&rdquo;

 But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
 Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
 Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
 Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore&mdash;
 What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
                         Meant in croaking &ldquo;Nevermore.&rdquo;

 This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
 To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom&rsquo;s core;
 This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
 On the cushion&rsquo;s velvet lining that the lamplght gloated o&rsquo;er,
 But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o&rsquo;er,
                          <i>She</i> shall press, ah, nevermore!

 Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
 Swung by Angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
 &ldquo;Wretch,&rdquo; I cried, &ldquo;thy God hath lent thee&mdash;by these angels he hath sent
 thee
 Respite&mdash;respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;
 Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!&rdquo;
                           Quoth the raven, &ldquo;Nevermore.&rdquo;

 &ldquo;Prophet!&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;thing of evil!&mdash;prophet still, if bird or devil!&mdash;
 Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
 Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted&mdash;
 On this home by Horror haunted&mdash;tell me truly, I implore&mdash;
 Is there&mdash;<i>is</i> there balm in Gilead?&mdash;tell me&mdash;tell me, I implore!&rdquo;
                           Quoth the raven, &ldquo;Nevermore.&rdquo;

 &ldquo;Prophet!&rdquo; said I, &ldquo;thing of evil&mdash;prophet still, if bird or devil!
 By that Heaven that bends above us&mdash;by that God we both adore&mdash;
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore&mdash;
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.&rdquo;
                           Quoth the raven, &ldquo;Nevermore.&rdquo;

 &ldquo;Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!&rdquo; I shrieked, upstarting&mdash;
 &ldquo;Get thee back into the tempest and the Night&rsquo;s Plutonian shore!
 Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
 Leave my loneliness unbroken!&mdash;quit the bust above my door!
 Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!&rdquo;
                          Quoth the raven, &ldquo;Nevermore.&rdquo;

 And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon&rsquo;s that is dreaming,
 And the lamp-light o&rsquo;er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
 And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
                          Shall be lifted&mdash;nevermore!
</pre>
<p>
    Published 1845.
</p>
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    <br /><br /><br /><br />
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<h2>
    THE BELLS.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                                       I.

                    HEAR the sledges with the bells&mdash;
                          Silver bells!
     What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
                How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
                      In the icy air of night!
                While the stars that oversprinkle
                All the heavens, seem to twinkle
                      With a crystalline delight;
                   Keeping time, time, time,
                   In a sort of Runic rhyme,
     To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
           From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                          Bells, bells, bells&mdash;
        From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

                                      II.

                    Hear the mellow wedding-bells
                          Golden bells!
     What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
                Through the balmy air of night
                How they ring out their delight!&mdash;
                      From the molten-golden notes,
                          And all in tune,
                      What a liquid ditty floats
           To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
                          On the moon!
                  Oh, from out the sounding cells,
     What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
                          How it swells!
                          How it dwells
                      On the Future!&mdash;how it tells
                      Of the rapture that impels
                  To the swinging and the ringing
                      Of the bells, bells, bells&mdash;
           Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                          Bells, bells, bells&mdash;
        To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

                                      III.

                    Hear the loud alarum bells&mdash;
                          Brazen bells!
     What tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
                In the startled ear of night
                How they scream out their affright!
                    Too much horrified to speak,
                    They can only shriek, shriek,
                       Out of tune,
     In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
     In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire,
                       Leaping higher, higher, higher,
                       With a desperate desire,
                    And a resolute endeavor
                    Now&mdash;now to sit, or never,
                By the side of the pale-faced moon.
                       Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
                       What a tale their terror tells
                          Of Despair!
             How they clang, and clash, and roar!
             What a horror they outpour
     On the bosom of the palpitating air!
                Yet the ear, it fully knows,
                      By the twanging
                      And the clanging,
                 How the danger ebbs and flows;
             Yet, the ear distinctly tells,
                   In the jangling
                   And the wrangling,
             How the danger sinks and swells,
     By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells&mdash;
                   Of the bells&mdash;
           Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                          Bells, bells, bells&mdash;
        In the clamour and the clangour of the bells!

                                   IV.

                    Hear the tolling of the bells&mdash;
                          Iron bells!
     What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
             In the silence of the night,
             How we shiver with affright
         At the melancholy meaning of their tone!
                 For every sound that floats
                 From the rust within their throats
                         Is a groan.
                     And the people&mdash;ah, the people&mdash;
                     They that dwell up in the steeple,
                         All alone,
                 And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
                     In that muffled monotone,
                 Feel a glory in so rolling
                     On the human heart a stone&mdash;
             They are neither man nor woman&mdash;
             They are neither brute nor human&mdash;
                         They are Ghouls:&mdash;
                 And their king it is who tolls:&mdash;
                 And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
                          Rolls
                     A pæan from the bells!
                 And his merry bosom swells
                     With the pæan of the bells!
                 And he dances, and he yells;
             Keeping time, time, time,
             In a sort of Runic rhyme,
                     To the pæan of the bells&mdash;
                          Of the bells:&mdash;
             Keeping time, time, time,
             In a sort of Runic rhyme,
                     To the throbbing of the bells&mdash;
                 Of the bells, bells, bells&mdash;
                     To the sobbing of the bells:&mdash;
             Keeping time, time, time,
                 As he knells, knells, knells,
             In a happy Runic rhyme,
                     To the rolling of the bells&mdash;
                 Of the bells, bells, bells:&mdash;
                     To the tolling of the bells&mdash;
           Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
                          Bells, bells, bells&mdash;
        To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
</pre>
<p>
    1849. <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017">
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    ULALUME
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     The skies they were ashen and sober;
         The leaves they were crisped and sere&mdash;
         The leaves they were withering and sere;
     It was night in the lonesome October
         Of my most immemorial year:
     It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
         In the misty mid region of Weir:&mdash;
     It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
         In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

     Here once, through an alley Titanic,
         Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul&mdash;
         Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
     There were days when my heart was volcanic
         As the scoriac rivers that roll&mdash;
         As the lavas that restlessly roll
     Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek,
         In the ultimate climes of the Pole&mdash;
     That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
         In the realms of the Boreal Pole.

     Our talk had been serious and sober,
         But our thoughts they were palsied and sere&mdash;
         Our memories were treacherous and sere;
     For we knew not the month was October,
         And we marked not the night of the year&mdash;
         (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
     We noted not the dim lake of Auber,
         (Though once we had journeyed down here)
     We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
         Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

     And now, as the night was senescent,
         And star-dials pointed to morn&mdash;
         As the star-dials hinted of morn&mdash;
     At the end of our path a liquescent
         And nebulous lustre was born,
     Out of which a miraculous crescent
         Arose with a duplicate horn&mdash;
     Astarte&rsquo;s bediamonded crescent,
         Distinct with its duplicate horn.

     And I said&mdash;&ldquo;She is warmer than Dian:
         She rolls through an ether of sighs&mdash;
         She revels in a region of sighs.
     She has seen that the tears are not dry on
         These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
     And has come past the stars of the Lion,
         To point us the path to the skies&mdash;
         To the Lethean peace of the skies&mdash;
     Come up, in despite of the Lion,
         To shine on us with her bright eyes&mdash;
     Come up, through the lair of the Lion,
         With love in her luminous eyes.&rdquo;

     But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
         Said&mdash;&ldquo;Sadly this star I mistrust&mdash;
         Her pallor I strangely mistrust&mdash;
     Ah, hasten!&mdash;ah, let us not linger!
         Ah, fly!&mdash;let us fly!&mdash;for we must.&rdquo;
      In terror she spoke; letting sink her
         Wings till they trailed in the dust&mdash;
     In agony sobbed, letting sink her
         Plumes till they trailed in the dust&mdash;
         Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

     I replied&mdash;&ldquo;This is nothing but dreaming.
         Let us on, by this tremulous light!
         Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
     Its Sybillic splendor is beaming
         With Hope and in Beauty to-night&mdash;
         See!&mdash;it flickers up the sky through the night!
     Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
         And be sure it will lead us aright&mdash;
     We safely may trust to a gleaming
         That cannot but guide us aright,
         Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.&rdquo;

     Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
         And tempted her out of her gloom&mdash;
         And conquered her scruples and gloom;
     And we passed to the end of the vista&mdash;
         But were stopped by the door of a tomb&mdash;
         By the door of a legended tomb:&mdash;
     And I said&mdash;&ldquo;What is written, sweet sister,
         On the door of this legended tomb?&rdquo;
          She replied&mdash;&ldquo;Ulalume&mdash;Ulalume&mdash;
         &lsquo;T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!&rdquo;

     Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
         As the leaves that were crisped and sere&mdash;
         As the leaves that were withering and sere&mdash;
     And I cried&mdash;&ldquo;It was surely October
         On <i>this</i> very night of last year,
         That I journeyed&mdash;I journeyed down here!&mdash;
         That I brought a dread burden down here&mdash;
         On this night, of all nights in the year,
         Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
     Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber&mdash;
         This misty mid region of Weir:&mdash;
     Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber&mdash;
         This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.&rdquo;
 </pre>
<p>
    1847. <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018">
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    TO HELEN
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     I saw thee once&mdash;once only&mdash;years ago:
     I must not say how many&mdash;but not many.
     It was a July midnight; and from out
     A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
     Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven,
     There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
     With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber,
     Upon the upturned faces of a thousand
     Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
     Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe&mdash;
     Fell on the upturn&rsquo;d faces of these roses
     That gave out, in return for the love-light,
     Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death&mdash;
     Fell on the upturn&rsquo;d faces of these roses
     That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
     By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.

     Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
     I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
     Fell on the upturn&rsquo;d faces of the roses,
     And on thine own, upturn&rsquo;d&mdash;alas, in sorrow!

     Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight-
     Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,)
     That bade me pause before that garden-gate,
     To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
     No footstep stirred: the hated world an slept,
     Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!&mdash;oh, God!
     How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
     Save only thee and me. I paused&mdash;I looked-
     And in an instant all things disappeared.
     (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)

     The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
     The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
     The happy flowers and the repining trees,
     Were seen no more: the very roses&rsquo; odors
     Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
     All&mdash;all expired save thee&mdash;save less than thou:
     Save only the divine light in thine eyes-
     Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
     I saw but them&mdash;they were the world to me!
     I saw but them&mdash;saw only them for hours,
     Saw only them until the moon went down.
     What wild heart-histories seemed to he enwritten

     Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
     How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope!
     How silently serene a sea of pride!
     How daring an ambition; yet how deep-
     How fathomless a capacity for love!

     But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
     Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
     And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
     Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained;
     They would not go&mdash;they never yet have gone;
     Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
     They have not left me (as my hopes have) since;
     They follow me&mdash;they lead me through the years.
     They are my ministers&mdash;yet I their slave.
     Their office is to illumine and enkindle&mdash;
     My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
     And purified in their electric fire,
     And sanctified in their elysian fire.
     They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope),
     And are far up in Heaven&mdash;the stars I kneel to
     In the sad, silent watches of my night;
     While even in the meridian glare of day
     I see them still&mdash;two sweetly scintillant
     Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
</pre>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    ANNABEL LEE.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     It was many and many a year ago,
         In a kingdom by the sea,
     That a maiden lived whom you may know
         By the name of ANNABEL LEE;&mdash;
     And this maiden she lived with no other thought
         Than to love and be loved by me.

     <i>I</i> was a child and <i>She</i> was a child,
         In this kingdom by the sea,
     But we loved with a love that was more than love&mdash;
         I and my ANNABEL LEE&mdash;
     With a love that the wingéd seraphs of Heaven
         Coveted her and me.

     And this was the reason that, long ago,
         In this kingdom by the sea,
     A wind blew out of a cloud by night
         Chilling my ANNABEL LEE;
     So that her high-born kinsmen came
         And bore her away from me,
     To shut her up, in a sepulchre
         In this kingdom by the sea.

     The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
         Went envying her and me;
     Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
         In this kingdom by the sea)
     That the wind came out of the cloud, chilling
         And killing my ANNABEL LEE.

     But our love it was stronger by far than the love
         Of those who were older than we&mdash;
         Of many far wiser than we&mdash;
     And neither the angels in Heaven above
         Nor the demons down under the sea
     Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
         Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE:&mdash;

     For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
         Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
     And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
         Of the beautiful ANNABEL LEE;
     And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
     Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride
         In her sepulchre there by the sea&mdash;
         In her tomb by the side of the sea.
</pre>
<p>
    1849. <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    A VALENTINE.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     For her this rhyme is penned, whose luminous eyes,
         Brightly expressive as the twins of Loeda,
     Shall find her own sweet name, that, nestling lies
         Upon the page, enwrapped from every reader.
     Search narrowly the lines!&mdash;they hold a treasure
         Divine&mdash;a talisman&mdash;an amulet
     That must be worn <i>at heart</i>. Search well the measure&mdash;
         The words&mdash;the syllables! Do not forget
     The trivialest point, or you may lose your labor!
         And yet there is in this no Gordian knot

     Which one might not undo without a sabre,
         If one could merely comprehend the plot.
     Enwritten upon the leaf where now are peering
         Eyes scintillating soul, there lie <i>perdus</i>
     Three eloquent words oft uttered in the hearing
         Of poets, by poets&mdash;as the name is a poet&rsquo;s, too.
     Its letters, although naturally lying
         Like the knight Pinto&mdash;Mendez Ferdinando&mdash;
     Still form a synonym for Truth&mdash;Cease trying!
         You will not read the riddle, though you do the best <i>you</i> can do.
</pre>
<p>
    1846.
</p>
<p>
    [To discover the names in this and the following poem read the first
    letter of the first line in connection with the second letter of the
    second line, the third letter of the third line, the fourth of the fourth
    and so on to the end.]
</p>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    AN ENIGMA
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;Seldom we find,&rdquo; says Solomon Don Dunce,
         &ldquo;Half an idea in the profoundest sonnet.
     Through all the flimsy things we see at once
         As easily as through a Naples bonnet&mdash;
         Trash of all trash!&mdash;how <i>can</i> a lady don it?
     Yet heavier far than your Petrarchan stuff-
     Owl-downy nonsense that the faintest puff
         Twirls into trunk-paper the while you con it.&rdquo;
      And, veritably, Sol is right enough.
     The general tuckermanities are arrant
     Bubbles&mdash;ephemeral and <i>so</i> transparent&mdash;
         But <i>this</i> is, now,&mdash;you may depend upon it&mdash;
     Stable, opaque, immortal&mdash;all by dint
     Of the dear names that lie concealed within &lsquo;t.
</pre>
<p>
    1847. TO MY MOTHER
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,
         The angels, whispering to one another,
     Can find, among their burning terms of love,
         None so devotional as that of &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo;
      Therefore by that dear name I long have called you&mdash;
         You who are more than mother unto me,
     And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you
         In setting my Virginia&rsquo;s spirit free.
     My mother&mdash;my own mother, who died early,
         Was but the mother of myself; but you
     Are mother to the one I loved so dearly,
         And thus are dearer than the mother I knew
     By that infinity with which my wife
         Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
</pre>
<p>
    1849.
</p>
<p>
    [The above was addressed to the poet&rsquo;s mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm&mdash;Ed.]
</p>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    FOR ANNIE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Thank Heaven! the crisis&mdash;
         The danger is past,
     And the lingering illness
         Is over at last&mdash;
     And the fever called &ldquo;Living&rdquo;
          Is conquered at last.

     Sadly, I know
         I am shorn of my strength,
     And no muscle I move
         As I lie at full length&mdash;
     But no matter!&mdash;I feel
         I am better at length.

     And I rest so composedly,
         Now, in my bed,
     That any beholder
         Might fancy me dead&mdash;
     Might start at beholding me,
         Thinking me dead.

     The moaning and groaning,
         The sighing and sobbing,
     Are quieted now,
         With that horrible throbbing
     At heart:&mdash;ah, that horrible,
         Horrible throbbing!

     The sickness&mdash;the nausea&mdash;
         The pitiless pain&mdash;
     Have ceased, with the fever
         That maddened my brain&mdash;
     With the fever called &ldquo;Living&rdquo;
          That burned in my brain.

     And oh! of all tortures
         <i>That</i> torture the worst
     Has abated&mdash;the terrible
         Torture of thirst
     For the naphthaline river
         Of Passion accurst:&mdash;
     I have drank of a water
         That quenches all thirst:&mdash;

     Of a water that flows,
         With a lullaby sound,
     From a spring but a very few
         Feet under ground&mdash;
     From a cavern not very far
         Down under ground.

     And ah! let it never
         Be foolishly said
     That my room it is gloomy
         And narrow my bed;
     For man never slept
         In a different bed&mdash;
     And, to <i>sleep</i>, you must slumber
         In just such a bed.

     My tantalized spirit
         Here blandly reposes,
     Forgetting, or never
         Regretting its roses&mdash;
     Its old agitations
         Of myrtles and roses:

     For now, while so quietly
         Lying, it fancies
     A holier odor
         About it, of pansies&mdash;
     A rosemary odor,
         Commingled with pansies&mdash;
     With rue and the beautiful
         Puritan pansies.

     And so it lies happily,
         Bathing in many
     A dream of the truth
         And the beauty of Annie&mdash;
     Drowned in a bath
         Of the tresses of Annie.

     She tenderly kissed me,
         She fondly caressed,
     And then I fell gently
         To sleep on her breast&mdash;
     Deeply to sleep
         From the heaven of her breast.

     When the light was extinguished,
         She covered me warm,
     And she prayed to the angels
         To keep me from harm&mdash;
     To the queen of the angels
         To shield me from harm.

     And I lie so composedly,
         Now in my bed,
     (Knowing her love)
         That you fancy me dead&mdash;
     And I rest so contentedly,
         Now in my bed,
     (With her love at my breast)
         That you fancy me dead&mdash;
     That you shudder to look at me,
         Thinking me dead:&mdash;

     But my heart it is brighter
         Than all of the many
     Stars in the sky,
         For it sparkles with Annie&mdash;
     It glows with the light
         Of the love of my Annie&mdash;
     With the thought of the light
         Of the eyes of my Annie.
</pre>
<p>
    1849. <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    TO F&mdash;&mdash;.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     BELOVED! amid the earnest woes
         That crowd around my earthly path&mdash;
     (Drear path, alas! where grows
     Not even one lonely rose)&mdash;
         My soul at least a solace hath
     In dreams of thee, and therein knows
     An Eden of bland repose.

     And thus thy memory is to me
         Like some enchanted far-off isle
     In some tumultuos sea&mdash;
     Some ocean throbbing far and free
         With storms&mdash;but where meanwhile
     Serenest skies continually
         Just o&rsquo;re that one bright island smile.
</pre>
<p>
    1845. <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    TO FRANCES S. OSGOOD
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     THOU wouldst be loved?&mdash;then let thy heart
         From its present pathway part not!
     Being everything which now thou art,
         Be nothing which thou art not.
     So with the world thy gentle ways,
         Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
     Shall be an endless theme of praise,
         And love&mdash;a simple duty.
</pre>
<p>
    1845. <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    ELDORADO.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         Gaily bedight,
         A gallant knight,
     In sunshine and in shadow,
         Had journeyed long,
         Singing a song,
     In search of Eldorado.

         But he grew old&mdash;
         This knight so bold&mdash;
     And o&rsquo;er his heart a shadow
         Fell, as he found
         No spot of ground
     That looked like Eldorado.

         And, as his strength
         Failed him at length,
     He met a pilgrim shadow&mdash;
         &lsquo;Shadow,&rsquo; said he,
         &lsquo;Where can it be&mdash;
     This land of Eldorado?&rsquo;

         &lsquo;Over the Mountains
         Of the Moon,
     Down the Valley of the Shadow,
         Ride, boldly ride,&rsquo;
         The shade replied,&mdash;
     &lsquo;If you seek for Eldorado!&rsquo;
</pre>
<p>
    1849.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                     EULALIE

                          I  DWELT alone
                         In a world of moan,
             And my soul was a stagnant tide,
     Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride&mdash;
     Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride.

                         Ah, less&mdash;less bright
                         The stars of the night
                 Than the eyes of the radiant girl!
                         And never a flake
                         That the vapour can make
                 With the moon-tints of purple and pearl,
     Can vie with the modest Eulalie&rsquo;s most unregarded curl&mdash;
     Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie&rsquo;s most humble and careless curl.

                    Now Doubt&mdash;now Pain
                    Come never again,
            For her soul gives me sigh for sigh,
                    And all day long
                    Shines, bright and strong,
            Astarté within the sky,
     While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye&mdash;
     While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
</pre>
<p>
    1845.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
      A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM

     Take this kiss upon the brow!
     And, in parting from you now,
     Thus much let me avow&mdash;
     You are not wrong, who deem
     That my days have been a dream;
     Yet if hope has flown away
     In a night, or in a day,
     In a vision, or in none,
     Is it therefore the less <i>gone</i>?
     <i>All</i> that we see or seem
     Is but a dream within a dream.

     I stand amid the roar
     Of a surf-tormented shore,
     And I hold within my hand
     Grains of the golden sand&mdash;
     How few! yet how they creep
     Through my fingers to the deep,
     While I weep&mdash;while I weep!
     O God! can I not grasp
     Them with a tighter clasp?
     O God! can I not save
     <i>One</i> from the pitiless wave?
     Is <i>all</i> that we see or seem
     But a dream within a dream?.
</pre>
<p>
    1849 <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Of all who hail thy presence as the morning&mdash;
     Of all to whom thine absence is the night&mdash;
     The blotting utterly from out high heaven
     The sacred sun&mdash;of all who, weeping, bless thee
     Hourly for hope&mdash;for life&mdash;ah! above all,
     For the resurrection of deep-buried faith
     In Truth&mdash;in Virtue&mdash;in Humanity&mdash;
     Of all who, on Despair&rsquo;s unhallowed bed
     Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen
     At thy soft-murmured words, &ldquo;Let there be light!&rdquo;
      At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled
     In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes&mdash;
     Of all who owe thee most&mdash;whose gratitude
     Nearest resembles worship&mdash;oh, remember
     The truest&mdash;the most fervently devoted,
     And think that these weak lines are written by him&mdash;
     By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think
     His spirit is communing with an angel&rsquo;s.
</pre>
<p>
    1847. <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    TO MARIE LOUISE (SHEW)
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     NOT long ago, the writer of these lines,
     In the mad pride of intellectuality,
     Maintained &ldquo;the power of words&rdquo;&mdash;denied that ever
     A thought arose within the human brain
     Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:
     And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
     Two words-two foreign soft dissyllables&mdash;
     Italian tones, made only to be murmured
     By angels dreaming in the moonlit &ldquo;dew
     That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,&rdquo;&mdash;
     Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,
     Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,
     Richer, far wider, far diviner visions
     Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,
     (Who has &ldquo;the sweetest voice of all God&rsquo;s creatures&rdquo;)
     Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.
     The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.
     With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,
     I can not write-I can not speak or think&mdash;
     Alas, I can not feel; for &lsquo;tis not feeling,
     This standing motionless upon the golden
     Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,
     Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,
     And thrilling as I see, upon the right,
     Upon the left, and all the way along,
     Amid empurpled vapors, far away
     To where the prospect terminates-<i>thee only!</i>
</pre>
<p>
    1848. <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE CITY IN THE SEA.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
     In a strange city lying alone
     Far down within the dim West,
     Wherethe good and the bad and the worst and the best
     Have gone to their eternal rest.
     There shrines and palaces and towers
     (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
     Resemble nothing that is ours.
     Around, by lifting winds forgot,
     Resignedly beneath the sky
     The melancholy waters lie.

     No rays from the holy heaven come down
     On the long night-time of that town;
     But light from out the lurid sea
     Streams up the turrets silently&mdash;
     Gleams up the pinnacles far and free&mdash;
     Up domes&mdash;up spires&mdash;up kingly halls&mdash;
     Up fanes&mdash;up Babylon-like walls&mdash;
     Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
     Of scultured ivy and stone flowers&mdash;
     Up many and many a marvellous shrine
     Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
     The viol, the violet, and the vine.

     Resignedly beneath the sky
     The melancholy waters lie.
     So blend the turrets and shadows there
     That all seem pendulous in air,
     While from a proud tower in the town
     Death looks gigantically down.

     There open fanes and gaping graves
     Yawn level with the luminous waves;
     But not the riches there that lie
     In each idol&rsquo;s diamond eye&mdash;
     Not the gaily-jewelled dead
     Tempt the waters from their bed;
     For no ripples curl, alas!
     Along that wilderness of glass&mdash;
     No swellings tell that winds may be
     Upon some far-off happier sea&mdash;
     No heavings hint that winds have been
     On seas less hideously serene.

     But lo, a stir is in the air!
     The wave&mdash;there is a movement there!
     As if the towers had thrown aside,
     In slightly sinking, the dull tide&mdash;
     As if their tops had feebly given
     A void within the filmy Heaven.
     The waves have now a redder glow&mdash;
     The hours are breathing faint and low&mdash;
     And when, amid no earthly moans,
     Down, down that town shall settle hence,
     Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
     Shall do it reverence.
</pre>
<p>
    1845. <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE SLEEPER.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     At midnight in the month of June,
     I stand beneath the mystic moon.
     An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
     Exhales from out her golden rim,
     And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
     Upon the quiet mountain top.
     Steals drowsily and musically
     Into the univeral valley.
     The rosemary nods upon the grave;
     The lily lolls upon the wave;
     Wrapping the fog about its breast,
     The ruin moulders into rest;
     Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
     A conscious slumber seems to take,
     And would not, for the world, awake.
     All Beauty sleeps!&mdash;and lo! where lies
     (Her easement open to the skies)
     Irene, with her Destinies!

     Oh, lady bright! can it be right&mdash;
     This window open to the night?
     The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
     Laughingly through the lattice drop&mdash;
     The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
     Flit through thy chamber in and out,
     And wave the curtain canopy
     So fitfully&mdash;so fearfully&mdash;
     Above the closed and fringed lid
     &lsquo;Neath which thy slumb&rsquo;ring sould lies hid,
     That o&rsquo;er the floor and down the wall,
     Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
     Oh, lady dear, hast thous no fear?
     Why and what art thou dreaming here?
     Sure thou art come p&rsquo;er far-off seas,
     A wonder to these garden trees!
     Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
     Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
     And this all solemn silentness!

     The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
     Which is enduring, so be deep!
     Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
     This chamber changed for one more holy,
     This bed for one more melancholy,
     I pray to God that she may lie
     Forever with unopened eye,
     While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!

     My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
     As it is lasting, so be deep!
     Soft may the worms about her creep!
     Far in the forest, dim and old,
     For her may some tall vault unfold&mdash;
     Some vault that oft hath flung its black
     And winged pannels fluttering back,
     Triumphant, o&rsquo;er the crested palls,
     Of her grand family funerals&mdash;
     Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
     Against whose portal she hath thrown,
     In childhood, many an idle stone&mdash;
     Some tomb fromout whose sounding door
     She ne&rsquo;er shall force an echo more,
     Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
     It was the dead who groaned within.
</pre>
<p>
    1845.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
 BRIDAL BALLAD.

     THE ring is on my hand,
         And the wreath is on my brow;
     Satins and jewels grand
     Are all at my command,
         And I am happy now.

     And my lord he loves me well;
         But, when first he breathed his vow,
     I felt my bosom swell&mdash;
     For the words rang as a knell,
     And the voice seemed <i>his</i> who fell
     In the battle down the dell,
         And who is happy now.

     But he spoke to re-asure me,
         And he kissed my pallid brow,
     While a reverie came o&rsquo;re me,
     And to the church-yard bore me,
     And I sighed to him before me,
     Thinking him dead D&rsquo;Elormie,
         &ldquo;Oh, I am happy now!&rdquo;

     And thus the words were spoken,
         And this the plighted vow,
     And, though my faith be broken,
     And, though my heart be broken,
     Behold the golden token
         That <i>proves</i> me happy now!

     Would God I could awaken!
         For I dream I know not how,
     And my soul is sorely shaken
     Lest an evil step be taken,&mdash;
     Lest the dead who is forsaken
         May not be happy now.
</pre>
<p>
    1845. <a name="link2H_NOTE" id="link2H_NOTE">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    NOTES
</h2>
<p>
    1. &ldquo;The Raven&rdquo; was first published on the 29th January, 1845, in the New
    York &ldquo;Evening Mirror"-a paper its author was then assistant editor of. It
    was prefaced by the following words, understood to have been written by N.
    P. Willis: &ldquo;We are permitted to copy (in advance of publication) from the
    second number of the &ldquo;American Review,&rdquo; the following remarkable poem by
    Edgar Poe. In our opinion, it is the most effective single example of
    &lsquo;fugitive poetry&rsquo; ever published in this country, and unsurpassed in
    English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification,
    and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift and &lsquo;pokerishness.&rsquo; It is
    one of those &lsquo;dainties bred in a book&rsquo; which we feed on. It will stick to
    the memory of everybody who reads it.&rdquo; In the February number of the
    &ldquo;American Review&rdquo; the poem was published as by &ldquo;Quarles,&rdquo; and it was
    introduced by the following note, evidently suggested if not written by
    Poe himself.
</p>
<p>
    [&ldquo;The following lines from a correspondent-besides the deep, quaint strain
    of the sentiment, and the curious introduction of some ludicrous touches
    amidst the serious and impressive, as was doubtless intended by the
    author-appears to us one of the most felicitous specimens of unique
    rhyming which has for some time met our eye. The resources of English
    rhythm for varieties of melody, measure, and sound, producing
    corresponding diversities of effect, having been thoroughly studied, much
    more perceived, by very few poets in the language. While the classic
    tongues, especially the Greek, possess, by power of accent, several
    advantages for versification over our own, chiefly through greater
    abundance of spondaic: feet, we have other and very great advantages of
    sound by the modern usage of rhyme. Alliteration is nearly the only effect
    of that kind which the ancients had in common with us. It will be seen
    that much of the melody of &lsquo;The Raven&rsquo; arises from alliteration, and the
    studious use of similar sounds in unusual places. In regard to its
    measure, it may be noted that if all the verses were like the second, they
    might properly be placed merely in short lines, producing a not uncommon
    form; but the presence in all the others of one line-mostly the second in
    the verse&rdquo; (stanza?)&mdash;&ldquo;which flows continuously, with only an
    aspirate pause in the middle, like that before the short line in the
    Sapphic Adonic, while the fifth has at the middle pause no similarity of
    sound with any part besides, gives the versification an entirely different
    effect. We could wish the capacities of our noble language in prosody were
    better understood.&rdquo;&mdash;ED. &ldquo;Am. Rev.&rdquo;]
</p>
<p>
    2. The bibliographical history of &ldquo;The Bells&rdquo; is curious. The subject, and
    some lines of the original version, having been suggested by the poet&rsquo;s
    friend, Mrs. Shew, Poe, when he wrote out the first draft of the poem,
    headed it, &ldquo;The Bells, By Mrs. M. A. Shew.&rdquo; This draft, now the editor&rsquo;s
    property, consists of only seventeen lines, and read thus:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                       I.

     The bells!-ah, the bells!
     The little silver bells!
     How fairy-like a melody there floats
     From their throats&mdash;
     From their merry little throats&mdash;
     From the silver, tinkling throats
     Of the bells, bells, bells&mdash;
     Of the bells!

                       II.

     The bells!-ah, the bells!

     The heavy iron bells!
     How horrible a monody there floats
     From their throats&mdash;
     From their deep-toned throats&mdash;
     From their melancholy throats!
     How I shudder at the notes Of the bells, bells, bells&mdash;
     Of the bells!
</pre>
<p>
    In the autumn of 1848 Poe added another line to this poem, and sent it to
    the editor of the &ldquo;Union Magazine.&rdquo; It was not published. So, in the
    following February, the poet forwarded to the same periodical a much
    enlarged and altered transcript. Three months having elapsed without
    publication, another revision of the poem, similar to the current version,
    was sent, and in the following October was published in the &ldquo;Union
    Magazine.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    3. This poem was first published in Colton&rsquo;s &ldquo;American Review&rdquo; for
    December, 1847, as &ldquo;To&mdash;Ulalume: a Ballad.&rdquo; Being reprinted
    immediately in the &ldquo;Home Journal,&rdquo; it was copied into various publications
    with the name of the editor, N. P. Willis, appended, and was ascribed to
    him. When first published, it contained the following additional stanza
    which Poe subsequently, at the suggestion of Mrs. Whitman, wisely
    suppressed:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Said we then&mdash;we two, then&mdash;&ldquo;Ah, can it
     Have been that the woodlandish ghouls&mdash;
     The pitiful, the merciful ghouls&mdash;
     To bar up our path and to ban it
     From the secret that lies in these wolds&mdash;
     Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
     From the limbo of lunary souls&mdash;
     This sinfully scintillant planet
     From the Hell of the planetary souls?&rdquo;
 </pre>
<p>
    4. &ldquo;To Helen!&rdquo; (Mrs. S. Helen Whitman) was not published until November,
    1848, although written several months earlier. It first appeared in the
    &ldquo;Union Magazine,&rdquo; and with the omission, contrary to the knowledge or
    desire of Poe, of the line, &ldquo;Oh, God! oh, Heaven&mdash;how my heart beats
    in coupling those two words.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    5. &ldquo;Annabel Lee&rdquo; was written early in 1849, and is evidently an expression
    of the poet&rsquo;s undying love for his deceased bride, although at least one
    of his lady admirers deemed it a response to her admiration. Poe sent a
    copy of the ballad to the &ldquo;Union Magazine,&rdquo; in which publication it
    appeared in January, 1850, three months after the author&rsquo;s death. While
    suffering from &ldquo;hope deferred&rdquo; as to its fate, Poe presented a copy of
    &ldquo;Annabel Lee&rdquo; to the editor of the &ldquo;Southern Literary Messenger,&rdquo; who
    published it in the November number of his periodical, a month after Poe&rsquo;s
    death. In the meantime the poet&rsquo;s own copy, left among his papers, passed
    into the hands of the person engaged to edit his works, and he quoted the
    poem in an obituary of Poe, in the New York &ldquo;Tribune,&rdquo; before any one else
    had an opportunity of publishing it.
</p>
<p>
    6. &ldquo;A Valentine,&rdquo; one of three poems addressed to Mrs. Osgood, appears to
    have been written early in 1846.
</p>
<p>
    7. &ldquo;An Enigma,&rdquo; addressed to Mrs. Sarah Anna Lewis (&ldquo;Stella&rdquo;), was sent to
    that lady in a letter, in November, 1847, and the following March appeared
    in Sartain&rsquo;s &ldquo;Union Magazine.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    8. The sonnet, &ldquo;To My Mother&rdquo; (Maria Clemm), was sent for publication to
    the short-lived &ldquo;Flag of our Union,&rdquo; early in 1849,&rsquo; but does not appear
    to have been issued until after its author&rsquo;s death, when it appeared in
    the &ldquo;Leaflets of Memory&rdquo; for 1850.
</p>
<p>
    9. &ldquo;For Annie&rdquo; was first published in the &ldquo;Flag of our Union,&rdquo; in the
    spring of 1849. Poe, annoyed at some misprints in this issue, shortly
    afterwards caused a corrected copy to be inserted in the &ldquo;Home Journal.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    10. &ldquo;To F&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; (Frances Sargeant Osgood) appeared in the
    &ldquo;Broadway journal&rdquo; for April, 1845. These lines are but slightly varied
    from those inscribed &ldquo;To Mary,&rdquo; in the &ldquo;Southern Literary Messenger&rdquo; for
    July, 1835, and subsequently republished, with the two stanzas transposed,
    in &ldquo;Graham&rsquo;s Magazine&rdquo; for March, 1842, as &ldquo;To One Departed.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    11. &ldquo;To F&mdash;&mdash;s S. O&mdash;d,&rdquo; a portion of the poet&rsquo;s triune
    tribute to Mrs. Osgood, was published in the &ldquo;Broadway Journal&rdquo; for
    September, 1845. The earliest version of these lines appeared in the
    &ldquo;Southern Literary Messenger&rdquo; for September, 1835, as &ldquo;Lines written in an
    Album,&rdquo; and was addressed to Eliza White, the proprietor&rsquo;s daughter.
    Slightly revised, the poem reappeared in Burton&rsquo;s &ldquo;Gentleman&rsquo;s Magazine&rdquo;
    for August, 1839, as &ldquo;To&mdash;.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    12. Although &ldquo;Eldorado&rdquo; was published during Poe&rsquo;s lifetime, in 1849, in
    the &ldquo;Flag of our Union,&rdquo; it does not appear to have ever received the
    author&rsquo;s finishing touches.
</p>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    POEMS OF MANHOOD
</h2>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    LENORE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     AH broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
     Let the bell toll!&mdash;a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river;
     And, Guy De Vere, hast <i>thou</i> no tear?&mdash;weep now or never more!
     See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
     Come! let the burial rite be read&mdash;the funeral song be sung!&mdash;
     An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young&mdash;
     A dirge for her the doubly dead in that she died so young.

     &ldquo;Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
     &ldquo;And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her&mdash;that she died!
     &ldquo;How shall the ritual, then, be read?&mdash;the requiem how be sung
     &ldquo;By you&mdash;by yours, the evil eye,&mdash;by yours, the slanderous tongue
     &ldquo;That did to death the innocent that died, and died so young?&rdquo;

      <i>Peccavimus</i>; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
     Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel so wrong!
     The sweet Lenore hath &ldquo;gone before,&rdquo; with Hope, that flew beside
     Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride&mdash;
     For her, the fair and <i>debonair</i>, that now so lowly lies,
     The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes&mdash;
     The life still there, upon her hair&mdash;the death upon her eyes.

     &ldquo;Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
     &ldquo;But waft the angel on her flight with a Paean of old days!
     &ldquo;Let no bell toll!&mdash;lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
     &ldquo;Should catch the note, as it doth float&mdash;up from the damned Earth.
     &ldquo;To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven&mdash;
     &ldquo;From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven&mdash;
     &ldquo;From grief and groan, to a golden throne, beside the King of Heaven.&rdquo;
 </pre>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    TO ONE IN PARADISE.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     THOU wast all that to me, love,
         For which my soul did pine&mdash;
     A green isle in the sea, love,
         A fountain and a shrine,
     All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
         And all the flowers were mine.

     Ah, dream too bright to last!
         Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
     But to be overcast!
         A voice from out the Future cries,
     &ldquo;On! on!&rdquo;&mdash;but o&rsquo;er the Past
         (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
     Mute, motionless, aghast!

     For, alas! alas! with me
         The light of Life is o&rsquo;er!
         No more&mdash;no more&mdash;no more&mdash;
     (Such language holds the solemn sea
         To the sands upon the shore)
     Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
         Or the stricken eagle soar!

     And all my days are trances,
         And all my nightly dreams
     Are where thy dark eye glances,
         And where thy footstep gleams&mdash;
     In what ethereal dances,
         By what eternal streams.
</pre>
<p>
    1835. <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE COLISEUM.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     TYPE of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
     Of lofty contemplation left to Time
     By buried centuries of pomp and power!
     At length&mdash;at length&mdash;after so many days
     Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
     (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
     I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
     Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
     My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!

     Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
     Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
     I feel ye now&mdash;I feel ye in your strength&mdash;
     O spells more sure than e&rsquo;er Judæan king
     Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
     O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
     Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!

     Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
     Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
     A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
     Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
     Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
     Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
     Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
     Lit by the wanlight&mdash;wan light of the horned moon,
     The swift and silent lizard of the stones!

     But stay! these walls&mdash;these ivy-clad arcades&mdash;
     These mouldering plinths&mdash;these sad and blackened shafts&mdash;
     These vague entablatures&mdash;this crumbling frieze&mdash;
     These shattered cornices&mdash;this wreck&mdash;this ruin&mdash;
     These stones&mdash;alas! these gray stones&mdash;are they all&mdash;
     All of the famed, and the colossal left
     By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?

     &ldquo;Not all&rdquo;&mdash;the Echoes answer me&mdash;&ldquo;not all!
     &ldquo;Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
     &ldquo;From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
     &ldquo;As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
     &ldquo;We rule the hearts of mightiest men&mdash;we rule
     &ldquo;With a despotic sway all giant minds.
     &ldquo;We are not impotent&mdash;we pallid stones.
     &ldquo;Not all our power is gone&mdash;not all our fame&mdash;
     &ldquo;Not all the magic of our high renown&mdash;
     &ldquo;Not all the wonder that encircles us&mdash;
     &ldquo;Not all the mysteries that in us lie&mdash;
     &ldquo;Not all the memories that hang upon
     &ldquo;And cling around about us as a garment,
     &ldquo;Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.&rdquo;
 </pre>
<p>
    1833. <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE HAUNTED PALACE.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     IN the greenest of our valleys
         By good angels tenanted,
     Once a fair and stately palace&mdash;
         Radiant palace&mdash;reared its head.
     In the monarch Thought&rsquo;s dominion&mdash;
         It stood there!
     Never seraph spread a pinion
         Over fabric half so fair.

     Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
         On its roof did float and flow,
     (This&mdash;all this&mdash;was in the olden
         Time long ago,)
     And every gentle air that dallied,
         In that sweet day,
     Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
         A winged odour went away.

     Wanderers in that happy valley,
         Through two luminous windows, saw
     Spirits moving musically,
         To a lute&rsquo;s well-tuned law,
     Round about a throne where, sitting
         (Porphyrogene)
     In state his glory well befitting,
         The ruler of the realm was seen.

     And all with pearl and ruby glowing
         Was the fair palace door,
     Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
         And sparkling evermore,
     A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
         Was but to sing,
     In voices of surpassing beauty,
         The wit and wisdom of their king.

     But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
         Assailed the monarch&rsquo;s high estate.
     (Ah, let us mourn!&mdash;for never sorrow
         Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
     And round about his home the glory
         That blushed and bloomed,
     Is but a dim-remembered story
         Of the old time entombed.

     And travellers, now, within that valley,
         Through the red-litten windows see
     Vast forms, that move fantastically
         To a discordant melody,
     While, lie a ghastly rapid river,
         Through the pale door
     A hideous throng rush out forever
         And laugh&mdash;but smile no more.
</pre>
<p>
    1838. <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036">
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</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE CONQUEROR WORM.
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     LO! &lsquo;tis a gala night
         Within the lonesome latter years!
     An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
         In veils, and drowned in tears,
     Sit in a theatre, to see
         A play of hopes and fears,
     While the orchestra breathes fitfully
         The music of the spheres.

     Mimes, in the form of God on high,
         Mutter and mumble low,
     And hither and thither fly&mdash;
         Mere puppets they, who come and go
     At bidding of vast formless things
         That shift the scenery to and fro,
     Flapping from out their Condor wings
        Invisible Wo!

     That motley drama&mdash;oh, be sure
         It shall not be forgot!
     With its Phantom chased for evermore,
         By a crowd that seize it not,
     Through a circle that ever returneth in
         To the self-same spot,
     And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
         And Horror the soul of the plot.

     But see, amid the mimic rout
         A crawling shape intrude!
     A blood-red thing that writhes from out
         The scenic solitude!
     It writhes!&mdash;it writhes!&mdash;with mortal pangs
         The mimes become its food,
     And the angels sob at vermin fangs
         In human gore imbued.

     Out&mdash;out are the lights&mdash;out all!
         And, over each quivering form,
     The curtain, a funeral pall,
         Comes down with the rush of a storm,
     And the angels, all pallid and wan,
         Uprising, unveiling, affirm
     That the play is the tragedy, &ldquo;Man,&rdquo;
          And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
</pre>
<p>
    1838. <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    SILENCE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     THERE are some qualities&mdash;some incorporate things,
         That have a double life, which thus is made
     A type of that twin entity which springs
         From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade.
     There is a two-fold <i>Silence</i>&mdash;sea and shore&mdash;
         Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places,
         Newly with grass o&rsquo;ergrown; some solemn graces,
     Some human memories and tearful lore,
     Render him terrorless: his name&rsquo;s &ldquo;No More.&rdquo;
      He is the corporate Silence: dread him not!
         No power hath he of evil in himself;
     But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!)
         Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf,
     That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod
     No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!
</pre>
<p>
    1840. <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    DREAM-LAND
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
        BY a route obscure and lonely,
         Haunted by ill angels only,
         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
         On a black throne reigns upright,
         I have reached these lands but newly
         From an ultimate dim Thule&mdash;
         From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,
               Out of SPACE&mdash;out of TIME.

         Bottomless vales and boundless floods,
         And chasms, and caves, and Titian woods,
         With forms that no man can discover
         For the dews that drip all over;
         Mountains toppling evermore
         Into seas without a shore;
         Seas that restlessly aspire,
         Surging, unto skies of fire;
         Lakes that endlessly outspread
         Their lone waters&mdash;lone and dead,&mdash;
         Their still waters&mdash;still and chilly
         With the snows of the lolling lily.

         By the lakes that thus outspread
         Their lone waters, lone and dead,&mdash;
         Their sad waters, sad and chilly
         With the snows of the lolling lily,&mdash;
         By the mountains&mdash;near the river
         Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,&mdash;
         By the grey woods,&mdash;by the swamp
         Where the toad and the newt encamp,&mdash;
         By the dismal tarns and pools
                 Where dwell the Ghouls,&mdash;
         By each spot the most unholy&mdash;
         In each nook most melancholy,&mdash;
         There the traveller meets aghast
         Sheeted Memories of the Past&mdash;
         Shrouded forms that start and sigh
         As they pass the wanderer by&mdash;
         White-robed forms of friends long given,
         In agony, to the Earth&mdash;and Heaven.

         For the heart whose woes are legion
         &lsquo;Tis a peaceful, soothing region&mdash;
         For the spirit that walks in shadow
         &lsquo;Tis&mdash;oh &lsquo;tis an Eldorado!
         But the traveller, travelling through it,
         May not&mdash;dare not openly view it;
         Never its mysteries are exposed
         To the weak human eye unclosed;
         So wills its King, who hath forbid
         The uplifting of the fringed lid;
         And thus the sad Soul that here passes
         Beholds it but through darkened glasses.

         By a route obscure and lonely,
         Haunted by ill angels only,
         Where an Eidolon, named NIGHT,
         On a black throne reigns upright,
         I have wandered home but newly
         From this ultimate dim Thule.
</pre>
<p>
    1844. <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    HYMN
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     AT morn&mdash;at noon&mdash;at twilight dim&mdash;
     Maria! thou hast heard my hymn!
     In joy and wo&mdash;in good and ill&mdash;
     Mother of God, be with me still!
     When the Hours flew brightly by
     And not a cloud obscured the sky,
     My soul, lest it should truant be,
     Thy grace did guide to thine and thee;
     Now, when storms of Fate o&rsquo;ercast
     Darkly my Present and my Past,
     Let my Future radiant shine
     With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
</pre>
<p>
    1835. <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    TO ZANTE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     FAIR isle, that from the fairest of all flowers,
         Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take
     How many memories of what radiant hours
         At sight of thee and thine at once awake!
     How many scenes of what departed bliss!
         How many thoughts of what entombed hopes!
     How many visions of a maiden that is
         No more&mdash;no more upon thy verdant slopes!
     No <i>more!</i> alas, that magical sad sound
         Transfomring all! Thy charms shall please <i>no more</i>&mdash;
     Thy memory <i>no more! </i>Accursed ground
         Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore,
     O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante!
         &ldquo;Isoa d&rsquo;oro! Fior di Levante!&rdquo;
 </pre>
<p>
    1837. <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041">
    <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    SCENES FROM &ldquo;POLITIAN&rdquo;
</h2>
<h3>
    AN UNPUBLISHED DRAMA.
</h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                                 I.

              ROME.&mdash;A Hall in a Palace  Alessandra and Castiglione.

      Alessandra.  Thou art sad, Castiglione.

      Castiglione.  Sad!&mdash;not I.
  Oh, I&rsquo;m the happiest, happiest man in Rome!
  A few days more, thou knowest, my Alessandra,
  Will make thee mine. Oh, I am very happy!

      Aless.  Methinks thou hast a singular way of showing
  Thy happiness!&mdash;what ails thee, cousin of mine?
  Why didst thou sigh so deeply?

      Cas.  Did I sign?
  I was not conscious of it. It is a fashion,
  A silly&mdash;a most silly fashion I have
  When I am very happy. Did I sigh?                         (sighing.)

      Aless. Thou didst. Thou art not well. Thou hast indulged
  Too much of late, and I am vexed to see it.
  Late hours and wine, Castiglione,&mdash;these
  Will ruin thee! thou art already altered&mdash;
  Thy looks are haggard&mdash;nothing so wears away
  The constitution as late hours and wine.

      Cas. (musing.)  Nothing, fair cousin, nothing&mdash;not even deep
  sorrow&mdash;
  Wears it away like evil hours and wine.
  I will amend.

      Aless. Do it! I would have thee drop
  Thy riotous company, too&mdash;fellows low born&mdash;
  Ill suit the like with old Di Broglio&rsquo;s heir
  And Alessandra&rsquo;s husband.

      Cas.  I will drop them.

      Aless.   Thou wilt&mdash;thou must. Attend thou also more
  To thy dress and equipage&mdash;they are over plain
  For thy lofty rank and fashion&mdash;much depends
  Upon appearances.

      Cas.  I&rsquo;ll see to it.

      Aless. Then see to it!&mdash;pay more attention, sir,
  To a becoming carriage&mdash;much thou wantest
  In dignity.

      Cas.  Much, much, oh! much I want
    In proper dignity.

      Aless.(haughtily)  Thou mockest me, sir!

      Cas. (abstractedly.)  Sweet, gentle Lalage!

      Aless. Heard I aright?
  I speak to him&mdash;he speaks of Lalage!
  Sir Count! (places her hand on his shoulder) what art thou dreaming?
  he&rsquo;s not well!
  What ails thee, sir?

      Cas. (startling.)  Cousin! fair cousin!&mdash;madam!
  I crave thy pardon&mdash;indeed I am not well&mdash;
  Your hand from off my shoulder, if you please.
  This air is most oppressive!&mdash;Madam&mdash;the Duke!

                                                     Enter Di Broglio.

      Di Broglio.  My son, I&rsquo;ve news for thee!&mdash;hey?&mdash;what&rsquo;s the
  matter? (observing Alessandra)
  I&rsquo; the pouts? Kiss her, Castiglione! kiss her,
  You dog! and make it up, I say, this minute!
  I&rsquo;ve news for you both. Politian is expected
  Hourly in Rome&mdash;Politian, Earl of Leicester!
  We&rsquo;ll have him at the wedding. &lsquo;Tis his first visit
  To the imperial city.

      Aless. What! Politian
  Of Britain, Earl of Leicester?

      Di Brog.  The same, my love.
  We&rsquo;ll have him at the wedding. A man quite young
  In years, but grey in fame. I have not seen him,
  But Rumour speaks of him as of a prodigy
  Pre-eminent in arts and arms, and wealth,
  And high descent. We&rsquo;ll have him at the wedding.

      Aless. I have heard much of this Politian.
  Gay, volatile and giddy&mdash;is he not?
  And little given to thinking.

      Di Brog.  Far from it, love.
  No branch, they say, of all philosophy
  So deep abstruse he has not mastered it.
  Learned as few are learned.

      Aless. &lsquo;Tis very strange!
  I have known men have seen Politian
  And sought his company. They speak of him
  As of one who entered madly into life,
  Drinking the cup of pleasure to the dregs.

      Cas.  Ridiculous! Now I have seen Politian
  And know him well&mdash;nor learned nor mirthful he.
  He is a dreamer and a man shut out
  From common passions.

      Di Brog.  Children, we disagree.
  Let us go forth and taste the fragrant air
  Of the garden. Did I dream, or did I hear
  Politian was a melancholy man?                             (exeunt.)

                            II

    ROME. A Lady&rsquo;s apartment, with a window open and looking into a garden.
  Lalage, in deep mourning, reading at a table on which lie some books and a
  hand mirror. In the background Jacinta (a servant maid) leans carelessly
  upon a chair.

      Lal. [Lalage] Jacinta! is it thou?

      Jac. [Jacinta] (pertly.) Yes, Ma&rsquo;am, I&rsquo;m here.

      Lal.   I did not know, Jacinta, you were in waiting.
  Sit down!&mdash;Let not my presence trouble you&mdash;
  Sit down!&mdash;for I am humble, most humble.

      Jac. (aside.) &lsquo;Tis time.
  (Jacinta seats herself in a side-long manner upon the chair, resting her
  elbows upon the back, and regarding her mistress with a contemptuous look.
  Lalage continues to read. )

      Lal. &ldquo;It in another climate, so he said,
  &ldquo;Bore a bright golden flower, but not i&rsquo; this soil!&rdquo;
   (pauses&mdash;turns over some leaves, and resumes)
  &ldquo;No lingering winters there, nor snow, nor shower&mdash;
  &ldquo;But Ocean ever to refresh mankind
  &ldquo;Breathes the shrill spirit of the western wind.&rdquo;
   O, beautiful!&mdash;most beautiful&mdash;how like
  To what my fevered soul doth dream of Heaven!
  O happy land (pauses) She died!&mdash;the maiden died!
  A still more happy maiden who couldst die!
  Jacinta!
  (Jacinta returns no answer, and Lalage presently resumes.)
  Again!&mdash;a similar tale
  Told of a beauteous dame beyond the sea!
  Thus speaketh one Ferdinand in the words of the play&mdash;
  &ldquo;She died full young&rdquo;&mdash;one Bossola answers him&mdash;
  &ldquo;I think not so&mdash;her infelicity
  &ldquo;Seemed to have years too many&rdquo;&mdash;Ah luckless lady!
  Jacinta! (still no answer)

      Here &lsquo;s a far sterner story,
  But like&mdash;oh, very like in its despair&mdash;
  Of that Egyptian queen, winning so easily
  A thousand hearts&mdash;losing at length her own.
  She died. Thus endeth the history&mdash;and her maids
  Lean over and weep&mdash;two gentle maids
  With gentle names&mdash;Eiros and Charmion!
  Rainbow and Dove!&mdash;&mdash;Jacinta!

      Jac. (pettishly.) Madam, what is it?

      Lal.  Wilt thou, my good Jacinta, be so kind
  As go down in the library and bring me
  The Holy Evangelists.

      Jac. Pshaw!   (exit.)

      Lal. If there be balm
  For the wounded spirit in Gilead it is there!
  Dew in the night time of my bitter trouble
  Will there be found&mdash;&ldquo;dew sweeter far than that
  Which hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill.&rdquo;
   (re-enter Jacinta, and throws a volume on the table.)
  There, ma&rsquo;am, &lsquo;s the book. Indeed she is very troublesome.  (aside.)

      Lal. (astonished.)  What didst thou say, Jacinta? Have I done aught
  To grieve thee or to vex thee?&mdash;I am sorry.
  For thou hast served me long and ever been
  Trust-worthy and respectful.                   (resumes her reading.)

      Jac. I can&rsquo;t believe
  She has any more jewels&mdash;no&mdash;no&mdash;she gave me all.    (aside.)

      Lal. What didst thou say, Jacinta? Now I bethink me
  Thou hast not spoken lately of thy wedding.
  How fares good Ugo?&mdash;and when is it to be?
  Can I do aught?&mdash;is there no farther aid
  Thou needest, Jacinta?

      Jac. Is there no farther aid!
  That&rsquo;s meant for me. (aside) I&rsquo;m sure, madam, you need not
  Be always throwing those jewels in my teeth.

      Lal. Jewels! Jacinta,&mdash;now indeed, Jacinta,
  I thought not of the jewels.

      Jac. Oh! perhaps not!
  But then I might have sworn it. After all,
  There &lsquo;s Ugo says the ring is only paste,
  For he &lsquo;s sure the Count Castiglione never
  Would have given a real diamond to such as you;
  And at the best I&rsquo;m certain, Madam, you cannot
  Have use for jewels now. But I might have sworn it.          (exit.)
  (Lalage bursts into tears and leans her head upon the table&mdash;after a
  short pause raises it.)

      Lal.  Poor Lalage!&mdash;and is it come to this?
  Thy servant maid!&mdash;but courage!&mdash;&lsquo;tis but a viper
  Whom thou hast cherished to sting thee to the soul!
  (taking up the mirror)
  Ha! here at least &lsquo;s a friend&mdash;too much a friend
  In earlier days&mdash;a friend will not deceive thee.
  Fair mirror and true! now tell me (for thou canst)
  A tale&mdash;a pretty tale&mdash;and heed thou not
  Though it be rife with woe: It answers me.
  It speaks of sunken eyes, and wasted cheeks,
  And Beauty long deceased&mdash;remembers me
  Of Joy departed&mdash;Hope, the Seraph Hope,
  Inurned and entombed:&mdash;now, in a tone
  Low, sad, and solemn, but most audible,
  Whispers of early grave untimely yawning
  For ruined maid. Fair mirror and true&mdash;thou liest not!
  Thou hast no end to gain&mdash;no heart to break&mdash;
  Castiglione lied who said he loved&mdash;
  Thou true&mdash;he false!&mdash;false!&mdash;false!
  (While she speaks, a monk enters her apartment, and approaches
  unobserved.)

      Monk. Refuge thou hast,
  Sweet daughter, in Heaven. Think of eternal things!
  Give up thy soul to penitence, and pray!

      Lal. (arising hurriedly.)  I cannot pray!&mdash;My soul is at war
  with God!
  The frightful sounds of merriment below
  Disturb my senses&mdash;go! I cannot pray&mdash;
  The sweet airs from the garden worry me!
  Thy presence grieves me&mdash;go!&mdash;thy priestly raiment
  Fills me with dread&mdash;thy ebony crucifix
  With horror and awe!

      Monk. Think of thy precious soul!

      Lal.  Think of my early days!&mdash;think of my father
  And mother in Heaven think of our quiet home,
  And the rivulet that ran before the door!
  Think of my little sisters!&mdash;think of them!
  And think of me!&mdash;think of my trusting love
  And confidence&mdash;his vows&mdash;my ruin&mdash;think&mdash;think
  Of my unspeakable misery!&mdash;begone!
  Yet stay! yet stay!&mdash;what was it thou saidst of prayer
  And penitence? Didst thou not speak of faith
  And vows before the throne?

      Monk.  I did.

      Lal. Lal. &lsquo;Tis well.
  There is a vow were fitting should be made&mdash;
  A sacred vow, imperative, and urgent,
  A solemn vow!

      Monk. Daughter, this zeal is well!

      Lal.  Father, this zeal is anything but well!
  Hast thou a crucifix fit for this thing?
  A crucifix whereon to register
  This sacred vow?                             (he hands her his own)
  Not that&mdash;Oh! no!&mdash;no!&mdash;no!                            (shuddering)
  Not that! Not that!&mdash;I tell thee, holy man,
  Thy raiments and thy ebony cross affright me!
  Stand back! I have a crucifix myself,&mdash;
  I have a crucifix Methinks &lsquo;twere fitting
  The deed&mdash;the vow&mdash;the symbol of the deed&mdash;
  And the deed&rsquo;s register should tally, father!

                  (draws a cross-handled dagger, and raises it on high)
  Behold the cross wherewith a vow like mine
  Is written in Heaven!

      Monk. Thy words are madness, daughter,
  And speak a purpose unholy&mdash;thy lips are livid&mdash;
  Thine eyes are wild&mdash;tempt not the wrath divine!
  Pause ere too late!&mdash;oh, be not&mdash;be not rash!
  Swear not the oath&mdash;oh, swear it not!

      Lal. &lsquo;Tis sworn!

                          III.

        An apartment in a Palace. Politian and Baldazzar.

       Baldazzar.&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;Arouse thee now, Politian!
  Thou must not&mdash;nay indeed, indeed, shalt not
  Give away unto these humors. Be thyself!
  Shake off the idle fancies that beset thee,
  And live, for now thou diest!

       Politian.  Not so, Baldazzar! Surely I live.

       Bal. Politian, it doth grieve me
  To see thee thus.

      Pol.  Baldazzar, it doth grieve me
  To give thee cause for grief, my honoured friend.
  Command me, sir! what wouldst thou have me do?
  At thy behest I will shake off that nature
  Which from my, forefathers I did inherit,
  Which with my mother&rsquo;s milk I did imbibe,
  And be no more Politian, but some other.
  Command me, sir!

      Bal.  To the field, then&mdash;to the field&mdash;
  To the senate or the field.

      Pol. Alas! Alas!
  There is an imp would follow me even there!
  There is an imp hath followed me even there!
  There is&mdash;what voice was that?

      Bal.  I heard it not.
  I heard not any voice except thine own,
  And the echo of thine own.

      Pol.  Then I but dreamed.

      Bal.  Give not thy soul to dreams: the camp&mdash;the court,
  Befit thee&mdash;Fame awaits thee&mdash;Glory calls&mdash;
  And her the trumpet-tongued thou wilt not hear
  In hearkening to imaginary sounds
  And phantom voices.

      Pol.  It is a phantom voice!
  Didst thou not hear it then?

      Bal.  I heard it not.

      Pol.  Thou heardst it not!&mdash;Baldazaar, speak no more
  To me, Politian, of thy camps and courts.
  Oh! I am sick, sick, sick, even unto death,
  Of the hollow and high-sounding vanities
  Of the populous Earth! Bear with me yet awhile!
  We have been boys together&mdash;schoolfellows&mdash;
  And now are friends&mdash;yet shall not be so long&mdash;
  For in the eternal city thou shalt do me
  A kind and gentle office, and a Power&mdash;
  A Power august, benignant and supreme&mdash;
  Shall then absolve thee of all further duties
  Unto thy friend.

      Bal.  Thou speakest a fearful riddle
  I will not understand.

      Pol.  Yet now as Fate
  Approaches, and the Hours are breathing low,
  The sands of Time are changed to golden grains,
  And dazzle me, Baldazzar. Alas! alas!
  I cannot die, having within my heart
  So keen a relish for the beautiful
  As hath been kindled within it. Methinks the air
  Is balmier now than it was wont to be&mdash;
  Rich melodies are floating in the winds&mdash;
  A rarer loveliness bedecks the earth&mdash;
  And with a holier lustre the quiet moon
  Sitteth in Heaven.&mdash;Hist! hist! thou canst not say
  Thou hearest not now, Baldazzar?

      Bal.  Indeed I hear not.

      Pol.  Not hear it!&mdash;listen now!&mdash;listen!&mdash;the faintest sound
  And yet the sweetest that ear ever heard!
  A lady&rsquo;s voice!&mdash;and sorrow in the tone!
  Baldazzar, it oppresses me like a spell!
  Again!&mdash;again!&mdash;how solemnly it falls
  Into my heart of hearts! that eloquent voice
  Surely I never heard&mdash;yet it were well
  Had I but heard it with its thrilling tones
  In earlier days!

      Bal.  I myself hear it now.
  Be still!&mdash;the voice, if I mistake not greatly,
  Proceeds from yonder lattice&mdash;which you may see
  Very plainly through the window&mdash;it belongs,
  Does it not? unto this palace of the Duke.
  The singer is undoubtedly beneath
  The roof of his Excellency&mdash;and perhaps
  Is even that Alessandra of whom he spoke
  As the betrothed of Castiglione,
  His son and heir.

      Pol.  Be still!&mdash;it comes again!

      Voice        &ldquo;And is thy heart so strong
  (very faintly)   As for to leave me thus
              Who hath loved thee so long

              In wealth and woe among?
              And is thy heart so strong
              As for to leave me thus?
                  Say nay&mdash;say nay!&rdquo;

      Bal.  The song is English, and I oft have heard it
  In merry England&mdash;never so plaintively&mdash;
  Hist! hist! it comes again!

      Voice            &ldquo;Is it so strong
  (more loudly)    As for to leave me thus
              Who hath loved thee so long
              In wealth and woe among?
              And is thy heart so strong
              As for to leave me thus?
                  Say nay&mdash;say nay!&rdquo;

      Bal.  &lsquo;Tis hushed and all is still!

      Pol.  All is not still!

      Bal.  Let us go down.

      Pol.  Go down, Baldazzar, go!

      Bal.  The hour is growing late&mdash;the Duke awaits use&mdash;
  Thy presence is expected in the hall
  Below. What ails thee, Earl Politian?

      Voice           &ldquo;Who hath loved thee so long
  (distinctly)        In wealth and woe among,

                          And is thy heart so strong?

                               Say nay&mdash;say nay!&rdquo;

      Bal.  Let us descend!&mdash;&lsquo;tis time. Politian, give
  These fancies to the wind. Remember, pray,
  Your bearing lately savored much of rudeness
  Unto the Duke. Arouse thee! and remember

      Pol.  Remember? I do. Lead on! I do remember.

                                                  (going.)
  Let us descend. Believe me I would give,
  Freely would give the broad lands of my earldom
  To look upon the face hidden by yon lattice&mdash;
  &ldquo;To gaze upon that veiled face, and hear
  Once more that silent tongue.&rdquo;

      Bal.  Let me beg you, sir,
  Descend with me&mdash;the Duke may be offended.
  Let us go down, I pray you.

      (Voice loudly) Say nay!&mdash;say nay!

      Pol. (aside)  &lsquo;Tis strange!&mdash;&lsquo;tis very strange&mdash;methought the
  voice
  Chimed in with my desires, and bade me stay!

                                     (approaching the window.)
  Sweet voice! I heed thee, and will surely stay.
  Now be this Fancy, by Heaven, or be it Fate,
  Still will I not descend. Baldazzar, make
  Apology unto the Duke for me;
  I go not down to-night.

      Bal.  Your lordship&rsquo;s pleasure
  Shall be attended to. Good-night, Politian.

      Pol.  Good-night, my friend, good-night.

                           IV.

             The gardens of a Palace&mdash;Moonlight Lalage and Politian.

      Lalge.  And dost thou speak of love
  To me, Politian?&mdash;dost thou speak of love
  To Lalage?&mdash;ah, woe&mdash;ah, woe is me!
  This mockery is most cruel&mdash;most cruel indeed!

      Politian.  Weep not! oh, sob not thus!&mdash;thy bitter tears
  Will madden me. Oh, mourn not, Lalage&mdash;
  Be comforted! I know&mdash;I know it all,
  And still I speak of love. Look at me, brightest
  And beautiful Lalage!&mdash;turn here thine eyes!
  Thou askest me if I could speak of love,
  Knowing what I know, and seeing what I have seen.
  Thou askest me that&mdash;and thus I answer thee&mdash;
  Thus on my bended knee I answer thee.                    (kneeling.)
  Sweet Lalage, I love thee&mdash;love thee&mdash;love thee;
  Thro&rsquo; good and ill&mdash;thro&rsquo; weal and wo I love thee.
  Not mother, with her first-born on her knee,
  Thrills with intenser love than I for thee.
  Not on God&rsquo;s altar, in any time or clime,
  Burned there a holier fire than burneth now
  Within my spirit for thee. And do I love?                 (arising.)
  Even for thy woes I love thee&mdash;even for thy woes-
  Thy beauty and thy woes.

      Lal.  Alas, proud Earl,
  Thou dost forget thyself, remembering me!
  How, in thy father&rsquo;s halls, among the maidens
  Pure and reproachless of thy princely line,
  Could the dishonored Lalage abide?
  Thy wife, and with a tainted memory-
  MY seared and blighted name, how would it tally
  With the ancestral honors of thy house,
  And with thy glory?

      Pol.  Speak not to me of glory!
  I hate&mdash;I loathe the name; I do abhor
  The unsatisfactory and ideal thing.
  Art thou not Lalage and I Politian?
  Do I not love&mdash;art thou not beautiful-
  What need we more? Ha! glory!&mdash;now speak not of it.
  By all I hold most sacred and most solemn-
  By all my wishes now&mdash;my fears hereafter-
  By all I scorn on earth and hope in heaven-
  There is no deed I would more glory in,
  Than in thy cause to scoff at this same glory
  And trample it under foot. What matters it-
  What matters it, my fairest, and my best,
  That we go down unhonored and forgotten
  Into the dust&mdash;so we descend together.
  Descend together&mdash;and then&mdash;and then, perchance-

      Lal.  Why dost thou pause, Politian?

      Pol.  And then, perchance
  Arise together, Lalage, and roam
  The starry and quiet dwellings of the blest,
  And still-

      Lal.  Why dost thou pause, Politian?

      Pol.  And still together&mdash;together.

      Lal.  Now Earl of Leicester!
  Thou lovest me, and in my heart of hearts
  I feel thou lovest me truly.

      Pol.  Oh, Lalage!

                                       (throwing himself upon his knee.)
  And lovest thou me?

      Lal.  Hist! hush! within the gloom
  Of yonder trees methought a figure passed-
  A spectral figure, solemn, and slow, and noiseless-
  Like the grim shadow Conscience, solemn and noiseless.

                                             (walks across and returns.)
  I was mistaken&mdash;&lsquo;twas but a giant bough
  Stirred by the autumn wind. Politian!

      Pol.  My Lalage&mdash;my love! why art thou moved?
  Why dost thou turn so pale? Not Conscience&rsquo; self,
  Far less a shadow which thou likenest to it,
  Should shake the firm spirit thus. But the night wind
  Is chilly&mdash;and these melancholy boughs
  Throw over all things a gloom.

      Lal.  Politian!
  Thou speakest to me of love. Knowest thou the land
  With which all tongues are busy&mdash;a land new found&mdash;
  Miraculously found by one of Genoa&mdash;
  A thousand leagues within the golden west?
  A fairy land of flowers, and fruit, and sunshine,
  And crystal lakes, and over-arching forests,
  And mountains, around whose towering summits the winds
  Of Heaven untrammelled flow&mdash;which air to breathe
  Is Happiness now, and will be Freedom hereafter
  In days that are to come?

      Pol.  O, wilt thou&mdash;wilt thou
  Fly to that Paradise&mdash;my Lalage, wilt thou
  Fly thither with me? There Care shall be forgotten,
  And Sorrow shall be no more, and Eros be all.
  And life shall then be mine, for I will live
  For thee, and in thine eyes&mdash;and thou shalt be
  No more a mourner&mdash;but the radiant Joys
  Shall wait upon thee, and the angel Hope
  Attend thee ever; and I will kneel to thee
  And worship thee, and call thee my beloved,
  My own, my beautiful, my love, my wife,
  My all;&mdash;oh, wilt thou&mdash;wilt thou, Lalage,
  Fly thither with me?

      Lal.  A deed is to be done&mdash;
  Castiglione lives!

      Pol.  And he shall die!                                (exit)

      Lal. (after a pause.)  And&mdash;he&mdash;shall&mdash;die!&mdash;alas!
  Castiglione die? Who spoke the words?
  Where am I?&mdash;what was it he said?&mdash;Politian!
  Thou art not gone&mdash;thou are not gone, Politian!
  I feel thou art not gone&mdash;yet dare not look,
  Lest I behold thee not; thou couldst not go
  With those words upon thy lips&mdash;O, speak to me!
  And let me hear thy voice&mdash;one word&mdash;one word,
  To say thou art not gone,&mdash;one little sentence,
  To say how thou dost scorn&mdash;how thou dost hate
  My womanly weakness. Ha! ha! thou art not gone-
  O speak to me! I knew thou wouldst not go!
  I knew thou wouldst not, couldst not, durst not go.
  Villain, thou art not gone&mdash;thou mockest me!
  And thus I clutch thee&mdash;thus!&mdash;He is gone, he is gone
  Gone&mdash;gone. Where am I?&mdash;&lsquo;tis well&mdash;&lsquo;tis very well!
  So that the blade be keen&mdash;the blow be sure,
  &lsquo;Tis well, &lsquo;tis very well&mdash;alas! alas!

                            V.

                 The suburbs. Politian alone.

      Politian.  This weakness grows upon me. I am faint,
  And much I fear me ill&mdash;it will not do
  To die ere I have lived!&mdash;Stay, stay thy hand,
  O Azrael, yet awhile!&mdash;Prince of the Powers
  Of Darkness and the Tomb, O pity me!
  O pity me! let me not perish now,
  In the budding of my Paradisal Hope!
  Give me to live yet&mdash;yet a little while:
  &lsquo;Tis I who pray for life&mdash;I who so late
  Demanded but to die!&mdash;what sayeth the Count?

                    Enter Baldazzar.

      Baldazzar.  That knowing no cause of quarrel or of feud
  Between the Earl Politian and himself.
  He doth decline your cartel.

      Pol.  What didst thou say?
  What answer was it you brought me, good Baldazzar?
  With what excessive fragrance the zephyr comes
  Laden from yonder bowers!&mdash;a fairer day,
  Or one more worthy Italy, methinks
  No mortal eyes have seen!&mdash;what said the Count?

      Bal.  That he, Castiglione&rsquo; not being aware
  Of any feud existing, or any cause
  Of quarrel between your lordship and himself,
  Cannot accept the challenge.

      Pol.  It is most true&mdash;
  All this is very true. When saw you, sir,
  When saw you now, Baldazzar, in the frigid
  Ungenial Britain which we left so lately,
  A heaven so calm as this&mdash;so utterly free
  From the evil taint of clouds?&mdash;and he did say?

      Bal.  No more, my lord, than I have told you, sir:
  The Count Castiglione will not fight,
  Having no cause for quarrel.

      Pol.  Now this is true-
  All very true. Thou art my friend, Baldazzar,
  And I have not forgotten it&mdash;thou&rsquo;lt do me
  A piece of service; wilt thou go back and say
  Unto this man, that I, the Earl of Leicester,
  Hold him a villain?&mdash;thus much, I prythee, say
  Unto the Count&mdash;it is exceeding just
  He should have cause for quarrel.

      Bal.  My lord!&mdash;my friend!-

      Pol.  (aside.) &lsquo;Tis he!&mdash;he comes himself? (aloud) Thou reasonest
  well.
  I know what thou wouldst say&mdash;not send the message-
  Well!&mdash;I will think of it&mdash;I will not send it.
  Now prythee, leave me&mdash;hither doth come a person
  With whom affairs of a most private nature
  I would adjust.

      Bal.  I go&mdash;to-morrow we meet,
  Do we not?&mdash;at the Vatican.

      Pol.  At the Vatican.                                     (exit
  Bal.)

                    Enter Castigilone.

      Cas.  The Earl of Leicester here!

      Pol.  I am the Earl of Leicester, and thou seest,
  Dost thou not? that I am here.

      Cas.  My lord, some strange,
  Some singular mistake&mdash;misunderstanding&mdash;
  Hath without doubt arisen: thou hast been urged
  Thereby, in heat of anger, to address
  Some words most unaccountable, in writing,
  To me, Castiglione; the bearer being
  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. I am aware
  Of nothing which might warrant thee in this thing,
  Having given thee no offence. Ha!&mdash;am I right?
  &lsquo;Twas a mistake?&mdash;undoubtedly&mdash;we all
  Do err at times.

      Pol.  Draw, villain, and prate no more!

      Cas.  Ha!&mdash;draw?&mdash;and villain? have at thee then at once,
  Proud Earl!                                   (draws.)

      Pol.  (drawing.)  Thus to the expiatory tomb,
  Untimely sepulchre, I do devote thee
  In the name of Lalage!

      Cas.  (letting fall his sword and recoiling to the extremity of the
  stage)

                      Of Lalage!
  Hold off&mdash;thy sacred hand!&mdash;avaunt, I say!
  Avaunt&mdash;I will not fight thee&mdash;indeed I dare not.

      Pol.  Thou wilt not fight with me didst say, Sir Count?
  Shall I be baffled thus?&mdash;now this is well;
  Didst say thou darest not? Ha!

      Cas.  I dare not&mdash;dare not&mdash;
  Hold off thy hand&mdash;with that beloved name
  So fresh upon thy lips I will not fight thee&mdash;
  I cannot&mdash;dare not.

      Pol.  Now by my halidom
  I do believe thee!&mdash;coward, I do believe thee!

      Cas.  Ha!&mdash;coward!&mdash;this may not be!

       (clutches his sword and staggers towards POLITIAN, but his purpose
  is changed before reaching him, and he falls upon his knee at the feet of
  the Earl)

                             Alas! my lord,
  It is&mdash;it is&mdash;most true. In such a cause
  I am the veriest coward. O pity me!

      Pol.  (greatly softened.)  Alas!&mdash;I do&mdash;indeed I pity thee.

      Cas.  And Lalage-

      Pol.  Scoundrel!&mdash;arise and die!

      Cas.  It needeth not be&mdash;thus&mdash;thus&mdash;O let me die
  Thus on my bended knee. It were most fitting
  That in this deep humiliation I perish.
  For in the fight I will not raise a hand
  Against thee, Earl of Leicester. Strike thou home&mdash;

                                                     (baring his bosom.)
  Here is no let or hindrance to thy weapon-
  Strike home. I will not fight thee.

      Pol.  Now, s&rsquo; Death and Hell!
  Am I not&mdash;am I not sorely&mdash;grievously tempted
  To take thee at thy word? But mark me, sir,
  Think not to fly me thus. Do thou prepare
  For public insult in the streets&mdash;before
  The eyes of the citizens. I&rsquo;ll follow thee
  Like an avenging spirit I&rsquo;ll follow thee
  Even unto death. Before those whom thou lovest-
  Before all Rome I&rsquo;ll taunt thee, villain,&mdash;I&rsquo;ll taunt thee,
  Dost hear? with cowardice&mdash;thou wilt not fight me?
  Thou liest! thou shalt!                                      (exit.)

      Cas.  Now this indeed is just!
  Most righteous, and most just, avenging Heaven!

  {In the book there is a gap in numbering the notes between 12 and 29.
 &mdash;ED}
</pre>
<p>
    NOTE
</p>
<p>
    29. Such portions of &ldquo;Politian&rdquo; as are known to the public first saw the
    light of publicity in the &ldquo;Southern Literary Messenger&rdquo; for December,
    1835, and January, 1836, being styled &ldquo;Scenes from Politian: an
    unpublished drama.&rdquo; These scenes were included, unaltered, in the 1845
    collection of Poems, by Poe. The larger portion of the original draft
    subsequently became the property of the present editor, but it is not
    considered just to the poet&rsquo;s memory to publish it. The work is a hasty
    and unrevised production of its author&rsquo;s earlier days of literary labor;
    and, beyond the scenes already known, scarcely calculated to enhance his
    reputation. As a specimen, however, of the parts unpublished, the
    following fragment from the first scene of Act II. may be offered. The
    Duke, it should be premised, is uncle to Alessandra, and father of
    Castiglione her betrothed.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
      Duke. Why do you laugh?

      Castiglione. Indeed

  I hardly know myself. Stay! Was it not
  On yesterday we were speaking of the Earl?
  Of the Earl Politian? Yes! it was yesterday.
  Alessandra, you and 1, you must remember!
  We were walking in the garden.

      Duke, Perfectly.
  I do remember it-what of it-what then?

      Cas. 0 nothing-nothing at all.

      Duke. Nothing at all!
  It is most singular that you should laugh
  &lsquo;At nothing at all!

      Cas. Most singular-singular!

      Duke. Look you, Castiglione, be so kind
  As tell me, sir, at once what &lsquo;tis you mean.
  What are you talking of?

      Cas. Was it not so?
  We differed in opinion touching him.

      Duke. Him!&mdash;Whom?

      Cas. Why, sir, the Earl Politian.

      Duke. The Earl of Leicester! Yes!&mdash;is it he you mean?
  We differed, indeed. If I now recollect
  The words you used were that the Earl you knew
  Was neither learned nor mirthful.

      Cas. Ha! ha!&mdash;now did I?

      Duke. That did you, sir, and well I knew at the time
  You were wrong, it being not the character
  Of the Earl-whom all the world allows to be
  A most hilarious man. Be not, my son,
  Too positive again.

      Cas. &lsquo;Tis singular!
  Most singular! I could not think it possible
  So little time could so much alter one!
  To say the truth about an hour ago,
  As I was walking with the Count San Ozzo,
  All arm in arm, we met this very man
  The Earl-he, with his friend Baldazzar,
  Having just arrived in Rome. Hal ha! he is altered!
  Such an account he gave me of his journey!
  &lsquo;Twould have made you die with laughter-such tales he told
  Of his caprices and his merry freaks
  Along the road-such oddity-such humor&mdash;
  Such wit-such whim-such flashes of wild merriment
  Set off too in such full relief by the grave
  Demeanor of his friend-who, to speak the truth,
  Was gravity itself&mdash;

      Duke. Did I not tell you?

      Cas. You did-and yet &lsquo;tis strange! but true as strange,
  How much I was mistaken! I always thought
  The Earl a gloomy man.

      Duke. So, so, you see! Be not too positive. Whom have we here?
  It can not be the Earl?

      Cas. The Earl! Oh, no! &lsquo;Tis not the Earl-but yet it is-and leaning
  Upon his friend Baldazzar. AM welcome, sir!

  (Enter Politian and Baldazzar.)
  My lord, a second welcome let me give you
  To Rome-his Grace the Duke of Broglio.
  Father! this is the Earl Politian, Earl
  Of Leicester in Great Britain. [Politian bows haughtily.]
      That, his friend
  Baldazzar, Duke of Surrey. The Earl has letters,
  So please you, for Your Grace.

      Duke. Hal ha! Most welcome
  To Rome and to our palace, Earl Politian!
  And you, most noble Duke! I am glad to see you!
  I knew your father well, my Lord Politian.
  Castiglione! call your cousin hither,
  And let me make the noble Earl acquainted
  With your betrothed. You come, sir, at a time
  Most seasonable. The wedding&mdash;

      Politian. Touching those letters, sir,
  Your son made mention of&mdash;your son, is he not?
  Touching those letters, sir, I wot not of them.
  If such there be, my friend Baldazzar here&mdash;
  Baldazzar! ah!&mdash;my friend Baldazzar here
  Will hand them to Your Grace. I would retire.

      Duke. Retire!&mdash;So soon?

  Came What ho! Benito! Rupert!
  His lordship&rsquo;s chambers-show his lordship to them!
  His lordship is unwell.     (Enter Benito.)

      Ben. This way, my lord! (Exit, followed by Politian.)

      Duke. Retire! Unwell!

      Bal. So please you, sir. I fear me
  &lsquo;Tis as you say&mdash;his lordship is unwell.
  The damp air of the evening-the fatigue
  Of a long journey&mdash;the&mdash;indeed I had better
  Follow his lordship. He must be unwell.
  I will return anon.

      Duke. Return anon!
  Now this is very strange! Castiglione!
  This way, my son, I wish to speak with thee.
  You surely were mistaken in what you said
  Of the Earl, mirthful, indeed!&mdash;which of us said
  Politian was a melancholy man?    (Exeunt.)
</pre>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042">
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    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    POEMS OF YOUTH
</h2>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR">
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    INTRODUCTION TO POEMS&mdash;1831
</h2>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044">
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    <i>LETTER TO MR. B&mdash;.</i>
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                                  &ldquo;WEST POINT, 1831.
</pre>
<p>
    &ldquo;DEAR B......... Believing only a portion of my former volume to be worthy
    a second edition-that small portion I thought it as well to include in the
    present book as to republish by itself. I have therefore herein combined
    &lsquo;Al Aaraaf&rsquo; and &lsquo;Tamerlane&rsquo; with other poems hitherto unprinted. Nor have
    I hesitated to insert from the &lsquo;Minor Poems,&rsquo; now omitted, whole lines,
    and even passages, to the end that being placed in a fairer light, and the
    trash shaken from them in which they were imbedded, they may have some
    chance of being seen by posterity.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;It has been said that a good critique on a poem may be written by one who
    is no poet himself. This, according to your idea and <i>mine </i>of
    poetry, I feel to be false-the less poetical the critic, the less just the
    critique, and the converse. On this account, and because there are but few
    B-&rsquo;s in the world, I would be as much ashamed of the world&rsquo;s good opinion
    as proud of your own. Another than yourself might here observe,
    &lsquo;Shakespeare is in possession of the world&rsquo;s good opinion, and yet
    Shakespeare is the greatest of poets. It appears then that the world judge
    correctly, why should you be ashamed of their favorable judgment?&rsquo; The
    difficulty lies in the interpretation of the word &lsquo;judgment&rsquo; or &lsquo;opinion.&rsquo;
    The opinion is the world&rsquo;s, truly, but it may be called theirs as a man
    would call a book his, having bought it; he did not write the book, but it
    is his; they did not originate the opinion, but it is theirs. A fool, for
    example, thinks Shakespeare a great poet-yet the fool has never read
    Shakespeare. But the fool&rsquo;s neighbor, who is a step higher on the Andes of
    the mind, whose head (that is to say, his more exalted thought) is too far
    above the fool to be seen or understood, but whose feet (by which I mean
    his everyday actions) are sufficiently near to be discerned, and by means
    of which that superiority is ascertained, which but for them would never
    have been discovered-this neighbor asserts that Shakespeare is a great
    poet&mdash;the fool believes him, and it is henceforward his <i>opinion.
</i>This neighbor&rsquo;s own opinion has, in like manner, been adopted from one
    above him, and so, ascendingly, to a few gifted individuals who kneel
    around the summit, beholding, face to face, the master spirit who stands
    upon the pinnacle.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer. He
    is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit of
    the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law or
    empire-an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in
    possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors,
    improve by travel-their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a
    distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops
    glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the mystic
    characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so many
    letters of recommendation.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I mentioned just now a vulgar error as regards criticism. I think the
    notion that no poet can form a correct estimate of his own writings is
    another. I remarked before that in proportion to the poetical talent would
    be the justice of a critique upon poetry. Therefore a bad poet would, I
    grant, make a false critique, and his self-love would infallibly bias his
    little judgment in his favor; but a poet, who is indeed a poet, could not,
    I think, fail of making-a just critique; whatever should be deducted on
    the score of self-love might be replaced on account of his intimate
    acquaintance with the subject; in short, we have more instances of false
    criticism than of just where one&rsquo;s own writings are the test, simply
    because we have more bad poets than good. There are, of course, many
    objections to what I say: Milton is a great example of the contrary; but
    his opinion with respect to the &lsquo;Paradise Regained&rsquo; is by no means fairly
    ascertained. By what trivial circumstances men are often led to assert
    what they do not really believe! Perhaps an inadvertent word has descended
    to posterity. But, in fact, the &lsquo;Paradise Regained&rsquo; is little, if at all,
    inferior to the &lsquo;Paradise Lost,&rsquo; and is only supposed so to be because men
    do not like epics, whatever they may say to the contrary, and, reading
    those of Milton in their natural order, are too much wearied with the
    first to derive any pleasure from the second.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I dare say Milton preferred &lsquo;Comus&rsquo; to either-. if so-justly.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;As I am speaking of poetry, it will not be amiss to touch slightly upon
    the most singular heresy in its modern history-the heresy of what is
    called, very foolishly, the Lake School. Some years ago I might have been
    induced, by an occasion like the present, to attempt a formal refutation
    of their doctrine; at present it would be a work of supererogation. The
    wise must bow to the wisdom of such men as Coleridge and Southey, but,
    being wise, have laughed at poetical theories so prosaically exemplifled.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Aristotle, with singular assurance, has declared poetry the most
    philosophical of all writings*-but it required a Wordsworth to pronounce
    it the most metaphysical. He seems to think that the end of poetry is, or
    should be, instruction; yet it is a truism that the end of our existence
    is happiness; if so, the end of every separate part of our existence,
    everything connected with our existence, should be still happiness.
    Therefore the end of instruction should be happiness; and happiness is
    another name for pleasure;-therefore the end of instruction should be
    pleasure: yet we see the above-mentioned opinion implies precisely the
    reverse.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;To proceed: <i>ceteris paribus,</i> he who pleases is of more importance
    to his fellow-men than he who instructs, since utility is happiness, and
    pleasure is the end already obtained which instruction is merely the means
    of obtaining.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;I see no reason, then, why our metaphysical poets should plume themselves
    so much on the utility of their works, unless indeed they refer to
    instruction with eternity in view; in which case, sincere respect for
    their piety would not allow me to express my contempt for their judgment;
    contempt which it would be difficult to conceal, since their writings are
    professedly to be understood by the few, and it is the many who stand in
    need of salvation. In such case I should no doubt be tempted to think of
    the devil in &lsquo;Melmoth.&rsquo; who labors indefatigably, through three octavo
    volumes, to accomplish the destruction of one or two souls, while any
    common devil would have demolished one or two thousand.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
&ldquo;Against the subtleties which would make poetry a study-not a passion-it
becomes the metaphysician to reason-but the poet to protest.
Yet Wordsworth and Coleridge are men in years; the one imbued in
contemplation from his childhood; the other a giant in intellect and
learning. The diffidence, then, with which I venture to dispute their
authority would be overwhelming did I not feel, from the bottom of my
heart, that learning has little to do with the imagination-intellect
with the passions-or age with poetry.

     &ldquo;&lsquo;Trifles, like straws, upon the surface flow;
     He who would search for pearls must dive below,&rsquo;
</pre>
<p>
    are lines which have done much mischief. As regards the greater truths,
    men oftener err by seeking them at the bottom than at the top; Truth lies
    in the huge abysses where wisdom is sought-not in the palpable palaces
    where she is found. The ancients were not always right in hiding&mdash;the
    goddess in a well; witness the light which Bacon has thrown upon
    philosophy; witness the principles of our divine faith&mdash;that moral
    mechanism by which the simplicity of a child may overbalance the wisdom of
    a man.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;We see an instance of Coleridge&rsquo;s liability to err, in his &lsquo;Biographia
    Literaria&rsquo;&mdash;professedly his literary life and opinions, but, in fact,
    a treatise <i>de omni scibili et quibusdam aliis. </i>He goes wrong by
    reason of his very profundity, and of his error we have a natural type in
    the contemplation of a star. He who regards it directly and intensely
    sees, it is true, the star, but it is the star without a ray-while he who
    surveys it less inquisitively is conscious of all for which the star is
    useful to us below-its brilliancy and its beauty.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had in youth the
    feelings of a poet I believe-for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in
    his writings-(and delicacy is the poet&rsquo;s own kingdom-his <i>El Dorado)-but
    they </i>have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at
    best, are little evidence of present poetic fire; we know that a few
    straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end
    of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light
    which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently is
    too correct. This may not be understood-but the old Goths of Germany would
    have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to their
    State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober-sober that they might
    not be deficient in formality&mdash;drunk lest they should be destitute of
    vigor.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration
    of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full of such
    assertions as this (I have opened one of his volumes at random)&mdash;&lsquo;Of
    genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done,
    and what was never done before;&rsquo;-indeed? then it follows that in doing
    what is unworthy to be done, or what <i>has </i>been done before, no
    genius can be evinced; yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act,
    pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pickpocket,
    in point of genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with William
    Wordsworth, the poet.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Again, in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian&rsquo;s
    or Macpherson&rsquo;s can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to
    prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the
    controversy. <i>Tantaene animis? </i>Can great minds descend to such
    absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor
    of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his
    abomination with which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the
    beginning of the epic poem &lsquo;Temora.&rsquo; &lsquo;The blue waves of Ullin roll in
    light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusty heads
    in the breeze.&rsquo; And this this gorgeous, yet simple imagery, where all is
    alive and panting with immortality-this, William Wordsworth, the author of
    &lsquo;Peter Bell,&rsquo; has <i>selected </i>for his contempt. We shall see what
    better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;&lsquo;And now she&rsquo;s at the pony&rsquo;s tail,
     And now she&rsquo;s at the pony&rsquo;s head,
     On that side now, and now on this;
     And, almost stifled with her bliss,

     A few sad tears does Betty shed....
     She pats the pony, where or when
     She knows not.... happy Betty Foy!
     Oh, Johnny, never mind the doctor!&rsquo;
</pre>
<p>
    Secondly:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;&lsquo;The dew was falling fast, the-stars began to blink;
     I heard a voice: it said-&ldquo;Drink, pretty creature, drink!&rdquo;
      And, looking o&rsquo;er the hedge, be-fore me I espied
     A snow-white mountain lamb, with a-maiden at its side.
     No other sheep was near,&mdash;the lamb was all alone,
     And by a slender cord was-tether&rsquo;d to a stone.&rsquo;
</pre>
<p>
    &ldquo;Now, we have no doubt this is all true: we will believe it, indeed we
    will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a
    sheep from the bottom of my heart.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;But there are occasions, dear B-, there are occasions when even
    Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end,
    and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an
    extract from his preface:-
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;&lsquo;Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modem writers, if
    they persist in reading this book to a conclusion <i>(impossible!) will,
</i>no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!)
    they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!), and will be induced to
    inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to
    assume that title.&rsquo; Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Yet, let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and the
    bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a
    tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;Of Coleridge, I can not speak but with reverence. His towering intellect!
    his gigantic power! To use an author quoted by himself, <i>&lsquo;Tai trouvé
    souvent que la plupart des sectes ont raison dans une bonne partie de ce
    qu&rsquo;elles avancent, mais non pas en ce qu&rsquo;elles nient,&rsquo; and </i>to employ
    his own language, he has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he
    has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a
    mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its
    perfume upon the night alone. In reading that man&rsquo;s poetry, I tremble like
    one who stands upon a volcano, conscious from the very darkness bursting
    from the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;What is poetry?&mdash;Poetry! that Proteus-like idea, with as many
    appellations as the nine-titled Corcyra! &lsquo;Give me,&rsquo; I demanded of a
    scholar some time ago, &lsquo;give me a definition of poetry.&rsquo; <i>&lsquo;Trèsvolontiers;&rsquo;
</i>and he proceeded to his library, brought me a Dr. Johnson, and
    overwhelmed me with a definition. Shade of the immortal Shakespeare! I
    imagine to myself the scowl of your spiritual eye upon the profanity of
    that scurrilous Ursa Major. Think of poetry, dear B-, think of poetry, and
    then think of Dr. Samuel Johnson! Think of all that is airy and
    fairy-like, and then of all that is hideous and unwieldy; think of his
    huge bulk, the Elephant! and then-and then think of the &lsquo;Tempest&rsquo;&mdash;the
    &lsquo;Midsummer-Night&rsquo;s Dream&rsquo;&mdash;Prospero Oberon&mdash;and Titania!
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having, for its
    <i>immediate </i>object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having, for
    its object, an <i>indefinite </i>instead of a <i>definite </i>pleasure,
    being a poem only so far as this object is attained; romance presenting
    perceptible images with definite, poetry with indefinite sensations, to
    which end music is an <i>essential, since </i>the comprehension of sweet
    sound is our most indefinite conception. Music, when combined with a
    pleasurable idea, is poetry; music, without the idea, is simply music; the
    idea, wi thout the music, is prose, from its very definitiveness.
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;What was meant by the invective against him who had no music in his soul?
</p>
<p>
    &ldquo;To sum up this long rigmarole, I have, dear B&mdash;, what you, no doubt,
    perceive, for the metaphysical poets as poets, the most sovereign
    contempt. That they have followers proves nothing-
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &ldquo;&lsquo;No Indian prince has to his palace
     More followers than a thief to the gallows.
</pre>
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<h2>
    SONNET&mdash;TO SCIENCE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     SCIENCE! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
         Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
     Why preyest thou thus upon the poet&rsquo;s heart,
         Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
     How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
         Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
     To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies
         Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
     Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
         And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
     To seek a shelter in some happier star?
         Hast thous not torn the Naiad from her flood,
     The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
         The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
</pre>
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<h2>
    AL AARAAF (*)
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     PART I.

          O!  NOTHING earthly save the ray
          (Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty&rsquo;s eye,
          As in those gardens where the day
          Springs from the gems of Circassy&mdash;
          O! nothing earthly save the thrill
          Of melody in woodland rill&mdash;
          Or (music of the passion-hearted)
          Joy&rsquo;s voice so peacefully departed
          That like the murmur in the shell,
          Its echo dwelleth and will dwell&mdash;
          Oh, nothing of the dross of ours&mdash;
          Yet all the beauty&mdash;all the flowers
          That list our Love, and deck our bowers&mdash;
          Adorn yon world afar, afar&mdash;
          The wandering star.

             &lsquo;Twas a sweet time for Nesace&mdash;for there
          Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
          Near four bright suns&mdash;a temporary rest&mdash;
          An oasis in desert of the blest.

     * A star was discovered by Tycho Brahe which appeared
     suddenly in the heavens&mdash;attained, in a few days, a
     brilliancy surpassing that of Jupiter&mdash;then as suddenly
     disappeared, and has never been seen since.

          Away&mdash;away&mdash;&lsquo;mid seas of rays that roll
          Empyrean splendor o&rsquo;er th&rsquo; unchained soul&mdash;
          The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
          Can struggle to its destin&rsquo;d eminence&mdash;
          To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode,
          And late to ours, the favour&rsquo;d one of God&mdash;
          But, now, the ruler of an anchor&rsquo;d realm,
          She throws aside the sceptre&mdash;leaves the helm,
          And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
          Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.

              Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
          Whence sprang the &ldquo;Idea of Beauty&rdquo; into birth,
          (Falling in wreaths thro&rsquo; many a startled star,
          Like woman&rsquo;s hair &lsquo;mid pearls, until, afar,
          It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
          She look&rsquo;d into Infinity&mdash;and knelt.
          Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled&mdash;
          Fit emblems of the model of her world&mdash;
          Seen but in beauty&mdash;not impeding sight
          Of other beauty glittering thro&rsquo; the light&mdash;
          A wreath that twined each starry form around,
          And all the opal&rsquo;d air in color bound.

              All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
          Of flowers:  of lilies such as rear&rsquo;d the head
          *On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
          So eagerly around about to hang
          Upon the flying footsteps of&mdash;deep pride&mdash;
          **Of her who lov&rsquo;d a mortal&mdash;and so died.
          The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
          Uprear&rsquo;d its purple stem around her knees:

          * On Santa Maura&mdash;olim Deucadia.

          **And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam&rsquo;d&mdash;
          Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham&rsquo;d
          All other loveliness: its honied dew
          (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
          Deliriously sweet, was dropp&rsquo;d from Heaven,
          And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
          In Trebizond&mdash;and on a sunny flower
          So like its own above that, to this hour,
          It still remaineth, torturing the bee
          With madness, and unwonted reverie:
          In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
          And blossom of the fairy plant, in grief
          Disconsolate linger&mdash;grief that hangs her head,
          Repenting follies that full long have fled,
          Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
          Like guilty beauty, chasten&rsquo;d, and more fair:
          Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
          She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
          **And Clytia pondering between many a sun,
          While pettish tears adown her petals run:
          ***And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth&mdash;
          And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
          Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
          Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:

     * This flower is much noticed by Lewenhoeck and Tournefort.
     The bee, feeding upon its blossom, becomes intoxicated.

     ** Clytia&mdash;The Chrysanthemum Peruvianum, or, to employ a
     better-known term, the turnsol&mdash;which continually turns
     towards the sun, covers itself, like Peru, the country from
     which it comes, with dewy clouds which cool and refresh its
     flowers during the most violent heat of the day.&mdash;<i>B. de St.
     Pierre</i>.

     *** There is cultivated in the king&rsquo;s garden at Paris, a
     species of serpentine aloes without prickles, whose large
     and beautiful flower exhales a strong odour of the vanilla,
     during the time of its expansion, which is very short. It
     does not blow till towards the month of July&mdash;you then
     perceive it gradually open its petals&mdash;expand them&mdash;fade
     and die.&mdash;<i>St. Pierre</i>.

     *And Valisnerian lotus thither flown
     From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
     **And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
     Isola d&rsquo;oro!&mdash;Fior di Levante!
     ***And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
     With Indian Cupid down the holy river&mdash;
     Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
     ****To bear the Goddess&rsquo; song, in odors, up to Heaven:

        &ldquo;Spirit! that dwellest where,
              In the deep sky,
          The terrible and fair,
              In beauty vie!
          Beyond the line of blue&mdash;
              The boundary of the star
          Which turneth at the view
              Of thy barrier and thy bar&mdash;
          Of the barrier overgone
             By the comets who were cast
          From their pride, and from their throne
             To be drudges till the last&mdash;
          To be carriers of fire
             (The red fire of their heart)
          With speed that may not tire
             And with pain that shall not part&mdash;

     * There is found, in the Rhone, a beautiful lily of the
     Valisnerian kind. Its stem will stretch to the length of
     three or four feet&mdash;thus preserving its head above water
     in the swellings of the river.

     ** The Hyacinth.

     *** It is a fiction of the Indians, that Cupid was first
     seen floating in one of these down the river Ganges&mdash;and
     that he still loves the cradle of his childhood.

    **** And golden vials full of odors which are the prayers of the saints.
   &mdash;Rev. St. John.

          Who livest&mdash;<i>that</i> we know&mdash;
              In Eternity&mdash;we feel&mdash;
          But the shadow of whose brow
              What spirit shall reveal?
          Tho&rsquo; the beings whom thy Nesace,
              Thy messenger hath known
          Have dream&rsquo;d for thy Infinity
              *A model of their own&mdash;
          Thy will is done, Oh, God!
              The star hath ridden high
          Thro&rsquo; many a tempest, but she rode
              Beneath thy burning eye;
          And here, in thought, to thee&mdash;
              In thought that can alone
          Ascend thy empire and so be
              A partner of thy throne&mdash;

     * The Humanitarians held that God was to be understood as
     having a really human form.&mdash;<i>Vide Clarke&rsquo;s Sermons</i>, vol.
     1, page 26, fol. edit.

     The drift of Milton&rsquo;s argument, leads him to employ language
     which would appear, at first sight, to verge upon their
     doctrine;  but it will be seen immediately, that he guards
     himself against the charge of having adopted one of the most
     ignorant errors of the dark ages of the church.&mdash;<i>Dr.
     Sumner&rsquo;s Notes on Milton&rsquo;s Christian Doctrine</i>.

     This opinion, in spite of many testimonies to the contrary,
     could never have been very general. Andeus, a Syrian of
     Mesopotamia, was condemned for the opinion, as heretical. He
     lived in the beginning of the fourth century. His disciples
     were called Anthropmorphites.&mdash;<i>Vide Du Pin</i>.

     Among Milton&rsquo;s poems are these lines:&mdash;
                Dicite sacrorum præsides nemorum Deæ, &amp;c.
                Quis ille primus cujus ex imagine
                Natura solers finxit humanum genus?
                Eternus, incorruptus, æquævus polo,
                Unusque et universus exemplar Dei.&mdash;And afterwards,
                Non cui profundum Cæcitas lumen dedit
                Dircæus augur vidit hunc alto sinu, &amp;c.

          *By winged Fantasy,
              My embassy is given,
          Till secrecy shall knowledge be
              In the environs of Heaven.&rdquo;

          She ceas&rsquo;d&mdash;and buried then her burning cheek
          Abash&rsquo;d, amid the lilies there, to seek
          A shelter from the fervour of His eye;
          For the stars trembled at the Deity.
          She stirr&rsquo;d not&mdash;breath&rsquo;d not&mdash;for a voice was there
          How solemnly pervading the calm air!
          A sound of silence on the startled ear
          Which dreamy poets name &ldquo;the music of the sphere.&rdquo;
           Ours is a world of words:  Quiet we call
          &ldquo;Silence&rdquo;&mdash;which is the merest word of all.
          All Nature speaks, and ev&rsquo;n ideal things
          Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings&mdash;
          But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
          The eternal voice of God is passing by,
          And the red winds are withering in the sky!

          ** &ldquo;What tho&rsquo; in worlds which sightless cycles run,
          Link&rsquo;d to a little system, and one sun&mdash;
          Where all my love is folly and the crowd
          Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
          The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath&mdash;
          (Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
          What tho&rsquo; in worlds which own a single sun
          The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,

     * Seltsamen Tochter Jovis
       Seinem Schosskinde
       Der Phantasie.&mdash;<i>Göethe</i>.

    ** Sightless&mdash;too small to be seen&mdash;<i>Legge</i>.

          Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
          To bear my secrets thro&rsquo; the upper Heaven.
          Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
          With all thy train, athwart the moony sky&mdash;
          *Apart&mdash;like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
          And wing to other worlds another light!
          Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
          To the proud orbs that twinkle&mdash;and so be
          To ev&rsquo;ry heart a barrier and a ban
          Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!&rdquo;

              Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
          The single-mooned eve!&mdash;on Earth we plight
          Our faith to one love&mdash;and one moon adore&mdash;
          The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
          As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
          Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
          And bent o&rsquo;er sheeny mountain and dim plain
          **Her way&mdash;but left not yet her Therasæan reign.

     * I have often noticed a peculiar movement of the fire-flies;
    &mdash;they will collect in a body and fly off, from a common
     centre, into innumerable radii.

     ** Therasæa, or Therasea, the island mentioned by Seneca,
     which, in a moment, arose from the sea to the eyes of
     astonished mariners.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         Part II.

          HIGH on a mountain of enamell&rsquo;d head&mdash;
          Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
          Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
          Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
          With many a mutter&rsquo;d &ldquo;hope to be forgiven&rdquo;
           What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven&mdash;
          Of rosy head, that towering far away
          Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
          Of sunken suns at eve&mdash;at noon of night,
          While the moon danc&rsquo;d with the fair stranger light&mdash;
          Uprear&rsquo;d upon such height arose a pile
          Of gorgeous columns on th&rsquo; unburthen&rsquo;d air,
          Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
          Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
          And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
          *Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
          Thro&rsquo; the ebon air, besilvering the pall
          Of their own dissolution, while they die&mdash;
          Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
          A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
          Sat gently on these columns as a crown&mdash;
          A window of one circular diamond, there,
          Look&rsquo;d out above into the purple air,

     * Some star which, from the ruin&rsquo;d roof Of shak&rsquo;d Olympus,
     by mischance, did fall.&mdash;<i>Milton.</i>

          And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
          And hallow&rsquo;d all the beauty twice again,
          Save when, between th&rsquo; Empyrean and that ring,
          Some eager spirit flapp&rsquo;d his dusky wing.
          But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
          The dimness of this world:  that greyish green
          That Nature loves the best for Beauty&rsquo;s grave
          Lurk&rsquo;d in each cornice, round each architrave&mdash;
          And every sculptur&rsquo;d cherub thereabout
          That from his marble dwelling peeréd out
          Seem&rsquo;d earthly in the shadow of his niche&mdash;
          Achaian statues in a world so rich?
          *Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis&mdash;
          From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
          **Of beautiful Gomorrah!  O, the wave
          Is now upon thee&mdash;but too late to save!

          Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
          Witness the murmur of the grey twilight

     * Voltaire, in speaking of Persepolis, says, &ldquo;Je connois
     bien l&rsquo;admiration qu&rsquo;inspirent ces ruines&mdash;mais un palais
     erigé au pied d&rsquo;une chaine des rochers sterils&mdash;peut il
     être un chef d&rsquo;oevure des arts!&rdquo; [<i>Voila les arguments de M.
     Voltaire</i>.]

     ** &ldquo;Oh! the wave&rdquo;&mdash;Ula Degusi is the Turkish appellation;
     but, on its own shores, it is called Bahar Loth, or
     Almotanah. There were undoubtedly more than two cities
     engluphed in the &ldquo;dead sea.&rdquo; In the valley of Siddim were
     five&mdash;Adrah, Zeboin, Zoar, Sodom and Gomorrah. Stephen of
     Byzantium mentions eight, and Strabo thirteeen, (engulphed)
    &mdash;but the last is out of all reason.

    It is said, (Tacitus, Strabo, Josephus, Daniel of St. Saba, Nau,
Maundrell, Troilo, D&rsquo;Arvieux) that after an excessive drought, the
vestiges of columns, walls, &amp;c. are seen above the surface. At <i>any</i>
season, such remains may be discovered by looking down into the
transparent lake, and at such distances as would argue the existence of
many settlements in the space now usurped by the &lsquo;Asphaltites.&rsquo;

          *That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
          Of many a wild star-gazer long ago&mdash;
          That stealeth ever on the ear of him
          Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim.
          And sees the darkness coming as a cloud&mdash;
          ***Is not its form&mdash;its voice&mdash;most palpable and loud?

              But what is this?&mdash;it cometh&mdash;and it brings
          A music with it&mdash;&lsquo;tis the rush of wings&mdash;
          A pause&mdash;and then a sweeping, falling strain
          And Nesace is in her halls again.
          From the wild energy of wanton haste
              Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
          And zone that clung around her gentle waist
              Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
          Within the centre of that hall to breathe
          She paus&rsquo;d and panted, Zanthe!  all beneath,
          The fairy light that kiss&rsquo;d her golden hair
          And long&rsquo;d to rest, yet could but sparkle there!

              ***Young flowers were whispering in melody
          To happy flowers that night&mdash;and tree to tree;
          Fountains were gushing music as they fell
          In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
          Yet silence came upon material things&mdash;
          Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings&mdash;
          And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
          Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:

     * Eyraco&mdash;Chaldea.

     ** I have often thought I could distinctly hear the sound of
     the darkness as it stole over the horizon.

     *** Fairies use flowers for their charactery.&mdash;<i>Merry Wives
     of Windsor</i>.  [William Shakespeare]

           &ldquo;&lsquo;Neath blue-bell or streamer&mdash;
               Or tufted wild spray
           That keeps, from the dreamer,
               *The moonbeam away&mdash;
             Bright beings!  that ponder,
               With half closing eyes,
           On the stars which your wonder
               Hath drawn from the skies,
           Till they glance thro&rsquo; the shade, and
               Come down to your brow
           Like&mdash;eyes of the maiden
               Who calls on you now&mdash;
           Arise!  from your dreaming
               In violet bowers,
           To duty beseeming
               These star-litten hours&mdash;
           And shake from your tresses
               Encumber&rsquo;d with dew
           The breath of those kisses
               That cumber them too&mdash;
           (O!  how, without you, Love!
               Could angels be blest?)
           Those kisses of true love
               That lull&rsquo;d ye to rest!
           Up!&mdash;shake from your wing
               Each hindering thing:
           The dew of the night&mdash;
               It would weigh down your flight;
           And true love caresses&mdash;
               O! leave them apart!

     * In Scripture is this passage&mdash;&ldquo;The sun shall not harm
     thee by day, nor the moon by night.&rdquo; It is perhaps not
     generally known that the moon, in Egypt, has the effect of
     producing blindness to those who sleep with the face exposed
     to its rays, to which circumstance the passage evidently
     alludes.

          They are light on the tresses,
              But lead on the heart.

          Ligeia!  Ligeia!
              My beautiful one!
          Whose harshest idea
              Will to melody run,
          O!  is it thy will
              On the breezes to toss?
          Or, capriciously still,
              *Like the lone Albatross,
          Incumbent on night
              (As she on the air)
          To keep watch with delight
              On the harmony there?

          Ligeia!  whatever
              Thy image may be,
          No magic shall sever
              Thy music from thee.
          Thou hast bound many eyes
              In a dreamy sleep&mdash;
          But the strains still arise
              Which <i>thy</i> vigilance keep&mdash;
          The sound of the rain
              Which leaps down to the flower,
          And dances again
              In the rhythm of the shower&mdash;
          **The murmur that springs
              From the growing of grass

     * The Albatross is said to sleep on the wing.

     ** I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am
     now unable to obtain and quote from memory:&mdash;&ldquo;The verie
     essence and, as it were, springe-heade, and origine of all
     musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of
     the forest do make when they growe.&rdquo;

          Are the music of things&mdash;
              But are modell&rsquo;d, alas!&mdash;
          Away, then my dearest,
              O!  hie thee away
          To springs that lie clearest
              Beneath the moon-ray&mdash;
           To lone lake that smiles,
              In its dream of deep rest,
          At the many star-isles
              That enjewel its breast&mdash;
          Where wild flowers, creeping,
              Have mingled their shade,
          On its margin is sleeping
              Full many a maid&mdash;
          Some have left the cool glade, and
              * Have slept with the bee&mdash;
          Arouse them my maiden,
              On moorland and lea&mdash;
          Go!  breathe on their slumber,
              All softly in ear,
          The musical number
              They slumber&rsquo;d to hear&mdash;
          For what can awaken
              An angel so soon

     * The wild bee will not sleep in the shade if there be
     moonlight. The rhyme in this verse, as in one about sixty
     lines before, has an appearance of affectation. It is,
     however, imitated from Sir W. Scott, or rather from Claud
     Halcro&mdash;in whose mouth I admired its effect:

                O!  were there an island,
                    Tho&rsquo; ever so wild
                Where woman might smile, and
                    No man be beguil&rsquo;d, &amp;c.

          Whose sleep hath been taken
              Beneath the cold moon,
          As the spell which no slumber
              Of witchery may test,
          The rythmical number
              Which lull&rsquo;d him to rest?&rdquo;

          Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
          A thousand seraphs burst th&rsquo; Empyrean thro&rsquo;,
          Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight&mdash;
          Seraphs in all but &ldquo;Knowledge,&rdquo; the keen light
          That fell, refracted, thro&rsquo; thy bounds, afar
          O Death!  from eye of God upon that star:
          Sweet was that error&mdash;sweeter still that death&mdash;
          Sweet was that error&mdash;ev&rsquo;n with <i>us</i> the breath
          Of science dims the mirror of our joy&mdash;
          To them &lsquo;twere the Simoom, and would destroy&mdash;
          For what (to them) availeth it to know
          That Truth is Falsehood&mdash;or that Bliss is Woe?
          Sweet was their death&mdash;with them to die was rife
          With the last ecstacy of satiate life&mdash;
          Beyond that death no immortality&mdash;
          But sleep that pondereth and is not &ldquo;to be&rdquo;&mdash;
          And there&mdash;oh!  may my weary spirit dwell&mdash;
          *Apart from Heaven&rsquo;s Eternity&mdash;and yet how far from Hell!

     * With the Arabians there is a medium between Heaven and
     Hell, where men suffer no punishment, but yet do not attain
     that tranquil and even happiness which they suppose to be
     characteristic of heavenly enjoyment.

            Un no rompido sueno&mdash;
            Un dia puro&mdash;allegre&mdash;libre
            Quiera&mdash;
            Libre de amor&mdash;de zelo&mdash;
            De odio&mdash;de esperanza&mdash;de rezelo.&mdash;-<i>Luis Ponce de Leon</i>.

     Sorrow is not excluded from &ldquo;Al Aaraaf,&rdquo; but it is that
     sorrow which the living love to cherish for the dead, and
     which, in some minds, resembles the delirium of opium. The
     passionate excitement of Love and the buoyancy of spirit
     attendant upon intoxication are its less holy pleasures&mdash;
     the price of which, to those souls who make choice of &ldquo;Al
     Aaraaf&rdquo; as their residence after life, is final death and
     annihilation.

          What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
          Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
          But two:  they fell:  for Heaven no grace imparts
          To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
          A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover&mdash;
          O!  where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
          Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?

     *Unguided Love hath fallen&mdash;&lsquo;mid &ldquo;tears of perfect moan.&rdquo;

          He was a goodly spirit&mdash;he who fell:
          A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well&mdash;
          A gazer on the lights that shine above&mdash;
          A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
          What wonder?  For each star is eye-like there,
          And looks so sweetly down on Beauty&rsquo;s hair&mdash;
          And they, and ev&rsquo;ry mossy spring were holy
          To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
          The night had found (to him a night of wo)
          Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo&mdash;
          Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
          And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
          Here sate he with his love&mdash;his dark eye bent
          With eagle gaze along the firmament:
          Now turn&rsquo;d it upon her&mdash;but ever then
          It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.

          &ldquo;Iante, dearest, see!  how dim that ray!
          How lovely &lsquo;tis to look so far away!

     * There be tears of perfect moan
         Wept for thee in Helicon.&mdash;<i>Milton.</i>

          She seem&rsquo;d not thus upon that autumn eve
          I left her gorgeous halls&mdash;nor mourn&rsquo;d to leave.
          That eve&mdash;that eve&mdash;I should remember well&mdash;
          The sun-ray dropp&rsquo;d, in Lemnos, with a spell
          On th&rsquo;Arabesque carving of a gilded hall
          Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall&mdash;
          And on my eye-lids&mdash;O the heavy light!
          How drowsily it weigh&rsquo;d them into night!
          On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
          With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
          But O that light!&mdash;I slumber&rsquo;d&mdash;Death, the while,
          Stole o&rsquo;er my senses in that lovely isle
          So softly that no single silken hair
          Awoke that slept&mdash;or knew that it was there.

          The last spot of Earth&rsquo;s orb I trod upon
          *Was a proud temple call&rsquo;d the Parthenon&mdash;
          More beauty clung around her column&rsquo;d wall
          **Than ev&rsquo;n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
          And when old Time my wing did disenthral
          Thence sprang I&mdash;as the eagle from his tower,
          And years I left behind me in an hour.
          What time upon her airy bounds I hung
          One half the garden of her globe was flung
          Unrolling as a chart unto my view&mdash;
          Tenantless cities of the desert too!
          Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
          And half I wish&rsquo;d to be again of men.&rdquo;

          &ldquo;My Angelo! and why of them to be?
          A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee&mdash;

    * It was entire in 1687&mdash;the most elevated spot in Athens.

    ** Shadowing more beauty in their airy brows
       Than have the white breasts of the Queen of Love.&mdash;<i>Marlowe.</i>

           And greener fields than in yon world above,
           And women&rsquo;s loveliness&mdash;and passionate love.&rdquo;

           &ldquo;But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
           *Fail&rsquo;d, as my pennon&rsquo;d spirit leapt aloft,
           Perhaps my brain grew dizzy&mdash;but the world
           I left so late was into chaos hurl&rsquo;d&mdash;
           Sprang from her station, on the winds apart,
           And roll&rsquo;d, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
           Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
           And fell&mdash;not swiftly as I rose before,
           But with a downward, tremulous motion thro&rsquo;
           Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
           Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
           For nearest of all stars was thine to ours&mdash;
           Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
           A red Dædalion on the timid Earth.

           &ldquo;We came&mdash;and to thy Earth&mdash;but not to us
           Be given our lady&rsquo;s bidding to discuss:
           We came, my love; around, above, below,
           Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
           Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
           She grants to us, as granted by her God&mdash;
           But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl&rsquo;d
           Never his fairy wing o&rsquo;er fairier world!
           Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
           Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
           When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
           Headlong thitherward o&rsquo;er the starry sea&mdash;
           But when its glory swell&rsquo;d upon the sky,
           As glowing Beauty&rsquo;s bust beneath man&rsquo;s eye,

     * Pennon&mdash;for pinion.&mdash;<i>Milton</i>.

           We paus&rsquo;d before the heritage of men,
           And thy star trembled&mdash;as doth Beauty then!&rdquo;

           Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
           The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
           They fell:  for Heaven to them no hope imparts
           Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
</pre>
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<h2>
    TAMERLANE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     KIND solace in a dying hour!
         Such, father, is not (now) my theme&mdash;
     I will not madly deem that power
             Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
             Unearthly pride hath revell&rsquo;d in&mdash;
         I have no time to dote or dream:
     You call it hope&mdash;that fire of fire!
     It is but agony of desire:
     If I <i>can</i> hope&mdash;Oh God! I can&mdash;
         Its fount is holier&mdash;more divine&mdash;
     I would not call thee fool, old man,
         But such is not a gift of thine.

     Know thou the secret of a spirit
         Bow&rsquo;d from its wild pride into shame.
     O! yearning heart! I did inherit
         Thy withering portion with the fame,
     The searing glory which hath shone
     Amid the jewels of my throne,
     Halo of Hell! and with a pain
     Not Hell shall make me fear again&mdash;
     O! craving heart, for the lost flowers
     And sunshine of my summer hours!
     Th&rsquo; undying voice of that dead time,
     With its interminable chime,
     Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
     Upon thy emptiness&mdash;a knell.

     I have not always been as now:
     The fever&rsquo;d diadem on my brow
         I claim&rsquo;d and won usurpingly&mdash;
     Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
         Rome to the Caesar&mdash;this to me?
             The heritage of a kingly mind,
     And a proud spirit which hath striven
             Triumphantly with human kind.

     On mountain soil I first drew life:
         The mists of the Taglay have shed
         Nightly their dews upon my head,
     And, I believe, the winged strife
     And tumult of the headlong air
     Have nestled in my very hair.

     So late from Heaven&mdash;that dew&mdash;it fell
         (Mid dreams of an unholy night)
     Upon me&mdash;with the touch of Hell,
         While the red flashing of the light
     From clouds that hung, like banners, o&rsquo;er,
         Appeared to my half-closing eye
         The pageantry of monarchy,
     And the deep trumpet-thunder&rsquo;s roar
         Came hurriedly upon me, telling
             Of human battle, where my voice,
         My own voice, silly child!&mdash;was swelling
             (O! how my spirit would rejoice,
     And leap within me at the cry)
     The battle-cry of Victory!

     The rain came down upon my head
         Unshelter&rsquo;d&mdash;and the heavy wind
         Was giantlike&mdash;so thou, my mind!&mdash;
     It was but man, I thought, who shed
         Laurels upon me: and the rush&mdash;
     The torrent of the chilly air
     Gurgled within my ear the crush
         Of empires&mdash;with the captive&rsquo;s prayer&mdash;
     The hum of suiters&mdash;and the tone
     Of flattery &lsquo;round a sovereign&rsquo;s throne.

     My passions, from that hapless hour,
         Usurp&rsquo;d a tyranny which men
     Have deem&rsquo;d, since I have reach&rsquo;d to power;
             My innate nature&mdash;be it so:
         But, father, there liv&rsquo;d one who, then,
     Then&mdash;in my boyhood&mdash;when their fire
             Burn&rsquo;d with a still intenser glow,
     (For passion must, with youth, expire)
         E&rsquo;en <i>then</i> who knew this iron heart
         In woman&rsquo;s weakness had a part.

     I have no words&mdash;alas!&mdash;to tell
     The loveliness of loving well!
     Nor would I now attempt to trace
     The more than beauty of a face
     Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
     Are&mdash;shadows on th&rsquo; unstable wind:
     Thus I remember having dwelt
     Some page of early lore upon,
     With loitering eye, till I have felt
     The letters&mdash;with their meaning&mdash;melt
     To fantasies&mdash;with none.

     O, she was worthy of all love!
     Love&mdash;as in infancy was mine&mdash;
     &lsquo;Twas such as angel minds above
     Might envy; her young heart the shrine
     On which my ev&rsquo;ry hope and thought
         Were incense&mdash;then a goodly gift,
             For they were childish&mdash;and upright&mdash;
     Pure&mdash;as her young example taught:
         Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
             Trust to the fire within, for light?

     We grew in age&mdash;and love&mdash;together,
         Roaming the forest, and the wild;
     My breast her shield in wintry weather&mdash;
         And, when the friendly sunshine smil&rsquo;d,
     And she would mark the opening skies,
     <i>I</i> saw no Heaven&mdash;but in her eyes.

     Young Love&rsquo;s first lesson is&mdash;the heart:
         For &lsquo;mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
     When, from our little cares apart,
         And laughing at her girlish wiles,
     I&rsquo;d throw me on her throbbing breast,
         And pour my spirit out in tears&mdash;
     There was no need to speak the rest&mdash;
         No need to quiet any fears
     Of her&mdash;who ask&rsquo;d no reason why,
     But turn&rsquo;d on me her quiet eye!

     Yet <i>more</i> than worthy of the love
     My spirit struggled with, and strove,
     When, on the mountain peak, alone,
     Ambition lent it a new tone&mdash;
     I had no being&mdash;but in thee:
         The world, and all it did contain
     In the earth&mdash;the air&mdash;the sea&mdash;
         Its joy&mdash;its little lot of pain
     That was new pleasure&mdash;the ideal,
         Dim, vanities of dreams by night&mdash;
     And dimmer nothings which were real&mdash;
         (Shadows&mdash;and a more shadowy light!)
     Parted upon their misty wings,
             And, so, confusedly, became
             Thine image, and&mdash;a name&mdash;a name!
     Two separate&mdash;yet most intimate things.

     I was ambitious&mdash;have you known
             The passion, father? You have not:
     A cottager, I mark&rsquo;d a throne
     Of half the world as all my own,
             And murmur&rsquo;d at such lowly lot&mdash;
     But, just like any other dream,
             Upon the vapour of the dew
     My own had past, did not the beam
             Of beauty which did while it thro&rsquo;
     The minute&mdash;the hour&mdash;the day&mdash;oppress
     My mind with double loveliness.

     We walk&rsquo;d together on the crown
     Of a high mountain which look&rsquo;d down
     Afar from its proud natural towers
         Of rock and forest, on the hills&mdash;
     The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
         And shouting with a thousand rills.

     I spoke to her of power and pride,
         But mystically&mdash;in such guise
     That she might deem it nought beside
         The moment&rsquo;s converse; in her eyes
     I read, perhaps too carelessly&mdash;
         A mingled feeling with my own&mdash;
     The flush on her bright cheek, to me
         Seem&rsquo;d to become a queenly throne
     Too well that I should let it be
         Light in the wilderness alone.

     I wrapp&rsquo;d myself in grandeur then,
         And donn&rsquo;d a visionary crown&mdash;
             Yet it was not that Fantasy
             Had thrown her mantle over me&mdash;
     But that, among the rabble&mdash;men,
             Lion ambition is chain&rsquo;d down&mdash;
     And crouches to a keeper&rsquo;s hand&mdash;
     Not so in deserts where the grand
     The wild&mdash;the terrible conspire
     With their own breath to fan his fire.

     Look &lsquo;round thee now on Samarcand!&mdash;
         Is not she queen of Earth? her pride
     Above all cities? in her hand
         Their destinies? in all beside
     Of glory which the world hath known
     Stands she not nobly and alone?
     Falling&mdash;her veriest stepping-stone
     Shall form the pedestal of a throne&mdash;
     And who her sovereign? Timour&mdash;he
         Whom the astonished people saw
     Striding o&rsquo;er empires haughtily
         A diadem&rsquo;d outlaw&mdash;

     O! human love! thou spirit given,
     On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
     Which fall&rsquo;st into the soul like rain
     Upon the Siroc wither&rsquo;d plain,
     And failing in thy power to bless
     But leav&rsquo;st the heart a wilderness!
     Idea! which bindest life around
     With music of so strange a sound
     And beauty of so wild a birth&mdash;
     Farewell! for I have won the Earth!

     When Hope, the eagle that tower&rsquo;d, could see
         No cliff beyond him in the sky,
     His pinions were bent droopingly&mdash;
         And homeward turn&rsquo;d his soften&rsquo;d eye.
     &lsquo;Twas sunset: when the sun will part
     There comes a sullenness of heart
     To him who still would look upon
     The glory of the summer sun.
     That soul will hate the ev&rsquo;ning mist,
     So often lovely, and will list
     To the sound of the coming darkness (known
     To those whose spirits hearken) as one
     Who, in a dream of night, <i>would</i> fly
     But <i>cannot</i> from a danger nigh.

     What tho&rsquo; the moon&mdash;the white moon
     Shed all the splendour of her noon,
     Her smile is chilly&mdash;and her beam,
     In that time of dreariness, will seem
     (So like you gather in your breath)
     A portrait taken after death.
     And boyhood is a summer sun
     Whose waning is the dreariest one&mdash;
     For all we live to know is known,
     And all we seek to keep hath flown&mdash;
     Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
     With the noon-day beauty&mdash;which is all.

     I reach&rsquo;d my home&mdash;my home no more&mdash;
         For all had flown who made it so&mdash;
     I pass&rsquo;d from out its mossy door,
         And, tho&rsquo; my tread was soft and low,
     A voice came from the threshold stone
     Of one whom I had earlier known&mdash;
         O! I defy thee, Hell, to show
         On beds of fire that burn below,
         A humbler heart&mdash;a deeper wo&mdash;

     Father, I firmly do believe&mdash;
         I <i>know</i>&mdash;for Death, who comes for me
             From regions of the blest afar,
     Where there is nothing to deceive,
             Hath left his iron gate ajar,
         And rays of truth you cannot see
         Are flashing thro&rsquo; Eternity&mdash;
     I do believe that Eblis hath
     A snare in ev&rsquo;ry human path&mdash;
     Else how, when in the holy grove
     I wandered of the idol, Love,
     Who daily scents his snowy wings
     With incense of burnt offerings
     From the most unpolluted things,
     Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
     Above with trelliced rays from Heaven
     No mote may shun&mdash;no tiniest fly
     The light&rsquo;ning of his eagle eye&mdash;
     How was it that Ambition crept,
         Unseen, amid the revels there,
     Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
         In the tangles of Love&rsquo;s very hair?
</pre>
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<h2>
    TO HELEN
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     HELEN, thy beauty is to me
         Like those Nicean barks of yore,
     That gently, o&rsquo;er a perfumed sea,
         The weary way-worn wanderer bore
         To his own native shore.

     On desperate seas long wont to roam,
         Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,
     Thy Naiad airs have brought me home
         To the glory that was Greece,
     And the grandeur that was Rome.

     Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche
         How statue-like I me thee stand,
     The agate lamp within thy hand!
         Ah, Psyche, from the regions which
         Are Holy-land!
</pre>
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    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE VALLEY OF UNREST
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <i>Once</i> it smiled a silent dell
     Where the people did not dwell;
     They had gone unto the wars,
     Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
     Nightly, from their azure towers,
     To keep watch above the flowers,
     In the midst of which all day
     The red sun-light lazily lay.
     <i>Now</i> each visiter shall confess
     The sad valley&rsquo;s restlessness.
     Nothing there is motionless&mdash;
     Nothing save the airs that brood
     Over the magic solitude.
     Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
     That palpitate like the chill seas
     Around the misty Hebrides!
     Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
     That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
     Uneasily, from morn till even,
     Over the violets there that lie
     In myriad types of the human eye&mdash;
     Over the lilies there that wave
     And weep above a nameless grave!
     They wave:&mdash;from out their fragrant tops
     Eternal dews come down in drops.
     They weep:&mdash;from off their delicate stems
     Perennial tears descend in gems.
</pre>
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<h2>
    ISRAFEL*
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     IN Heaven a spirit doth dwell
         &ldquo;Whose heart-strings are a lute;&rdquo;
      None sing so wildly well
     As the angel Israfel,
     And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
     Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
         Of his voice, all mute.

     Tottering above
         In her highest noon
         The enamoured moon
     Blushes with love,
         While, to listen, the red levin
         (With the rapid Pleiads, even,
         Which were seven,)
         Pauses in Heaven

     And they say (the starry choir
         And all the listening things)
     That Israfeli&rsquo;s fire
     Is owing to that lyre
         By which he sits and sings&mdash;
     The trembling living wire
     Of those unusual strings.

  * And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lut, and
  who has the sweetest voice of all God&rsquo;s creatures.&mdash;KORAN.

     But the skies that angel trod,
         Where deep thoughts are a duty&mdash;
     Where Love&rsquo;s a grown up God&mdash;
         Where the Houri glances are
     Imbued with all the beauty
         Which we worship in a star.

     Therefore, thou art not wrong,
         Israfeli, who despisest
     An unimpassion&rsquo;d song:
     To thee the laurels belong
         Best bard, because the wisest!
     Merrily live, and long!

     The extacies above
         With thy burning measures suit&mdash;
     Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
         With the fervor of thy lute&mdash;
         Well may the stars be mute!

     Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
         Is a world of sweets and sours;
         Our flowers are merely&mdash;flowers,
     And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
         Is the sunshine of ours.

     If I could dwell
     Where Israfel
         Hath dwelt, and he where I,
     He might not sing so wildly well
         A mortal melody,
     While a bolder note than this might swell
         From my lyre within the sky.
</pre>
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<h2>
    TO &mdash;&mdash;
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                     1

     The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see
         The wantonest singing birds
     Are lips&mdash;and all thy melody
         Of lip-begotten words&mdash;

                      2

     Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrin&rsquo;d
         Then desolately fall,
     O! God! on my funereal mind
         Like starlight on a pall&mdash;

                       3

     Thy heart&mdash;<i>thy</i> heart!&mdash;I wake and sigh,
         And sleep to dream till day
     Of truth that gold can never buy&mdash;
         Of the trifles that it may.
</pre>
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<h2>
    TO &mdash;&mdash;
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     I HEED not that my earthly lot

         Hath-little of Earth in it&mdash;

     That years of love have been forgot

     In the hatred of a minute:&mdash;

     I mourn not that the desolate

         Are happier, sweet, than I,

     But that you sorrow for my fate

     Who am a passer-by.
</pre>
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</div>
<h2>
    TO THE RIVER&mdash;&mdash;
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     FAIR river! in thy bright, clear flow
         Of crystal, wandering water,
     Thou art an emblem of the glow
             Of beauty&mdash;the unhidden heart&mdash;
             The playful maziness of art
     In old Alberto&rsquo;s daughter;

     But when within thy wave she looks&mdash;
             Which glistens then, and trembles&mdash;
     Why, then, the prettiest of brooks
             Her worshipper resembles;
     For in my heart, as in thy stream,
         Her image deeply lies&mdash;
     His heart which trembles at the beam
         Of her soul-searching eyes.
</pre>
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<h2>
    SONG
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     I SAW thee on thy bridal day&mdash;
         When a burning blush came o&rsquo;er thee,
     Though happiness around thee lay,
         The world all love before thee:

     And in thine eye a kindling light
         (Whatever it might be)
     Was all on Earth my aching sight
        Of Loveliness could see.

     That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame&mdash;
         As such it well may pass&mdash;
     Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
         In the breast of him, alas!

     Who saw thee on that bridal day,
         When that deep blush <i>would</i> come o&rsquo;er thee,
     Though happiness around thee lay,
         The world all love before thee.
</pre>
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    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    SPIRITS OF THE DEAD
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                                 1

     Thy soul shall find itself alone
     &lsquo;Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone&mdash;
     Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
     Into thine hour of secrecy:

                                 2

     Be silent in that solitude
         Which is not loneliness&mdash;for then
     The spirits of the dead who stood
         In life before thee are again
     In death around thee&mdash;and their will
     Shall then overshadow thee: be still.

                                3

     For the night&mdash;tho&rsquo; clear&mdash;shall frown&mdash;
     And the stars shall look not down,
     From their high thrones in the Heaven,
     With light like Hope to mortals given&mdash;
     But their red orbs, without beam,
     To thy weariness shall seem
     As a burning and a fever
     Which would cling to thee for ever:

                               4

     Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish&mdash;
     Now are visions ne&rsquo;er to vanish&mdash;
     From thy spirit shall they pass
     No more&mdash;like dew-drop from the grass:

                              5

     The breeze&mdash;the breath of God&mdash;is still&mdash;
     And the mist upon the hill
     Shadowy&mdash;shadowy&mdash;yet unbroken,
     Is a symbol and a token&mdash;
     How it hangs upon the trees,
     A mystery of mysteries!&mdash;
</pre>
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<h2>
    A DREAM
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     In visions of the dark night
         I have dreamed of joy departed&mdash;
     But a waking dreams of life and light
         Hath left me broken-hearted.

     Ah! what is not a dream by day
         To him whose eyes are cast
     On things around him with a ray
         Turned back upon the past?

     That holy dream&mdash;that holy dream,
         While all the world were chiding,
     Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
         A lonely spirit guiding.

     What though that light, thro&rsquo; storm and night,
         So trembled from afar-
     What could there be more purely bright
         In Truths day-star?
</pre>
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</div>
<h2>
    ROMANCE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ROMANCE, who loves to nod and sing,
     With drowsy head and folded wing,
     Among the green leaves as they shake
     Far down within some shadowy lake,
     To me a painted paroquet
     Hath been&mdash;a most familiar bird&mdash;
     Taught me my alphabet to say&mdash;
     To lisp my very earliest word
     While in the wild wood I did lie,
     A child&mdash;with a most knowing eye.

     Of late, eternal Condor years
     So shake the very Heaven on high
     With tumult as they thunder by,
     I have no time for idle cares
     Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
     And when an hour with calmer wings
     Its down upon thy spirit flings&mdash;
     That little time with lyre and rhyme
     To while away&mdash;forbidden things!
     My heart would feel to be a crime
     Unless it trembled with the strings.

     1829.
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    FAIRY-LAND
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     DIM vales&mdash;and shadowy floods&mdash;
     And cloudy-looking woods,
     Whose forms we can&rsquo;t discover
     For the tears that drip all over
     Huge moons there wax and wane&mdash;
     Again&mdash;again&mdash;again&mdash;
     Every moment of the night&mdash;
     Forever changing places&mdash;
     And they put out the star-light
     With the breath from their pale faces.
     About twelve by the moon-dial
     One, more filmy than the rest
     (A kind which, upon trial,
     They have found to be the best)
     Comes down&mdash;still down&mdash;and down
     With its centre on the crown
     Of a mountain&rsquo;s eminence,
     While its wide circumference
     In easy drapery falls
     Over hamlets, over halls,
     Wherever they may be&mdash;
     O&rsquo;er the strange woods&mdash;o&rsquo;er the sea&mdash;
     Over spirits on the wing&mdash;
     Over every drowsy thing&mdash;
     And buries them up quite
     In a labyrinth of light&mdash;
     And then, how deep!&mdash;O, deep!
     Is the passion of their sleep.
     In the morning they arise,
     And their moony covering
     Is soaring in the skies,
     With the tempests as they toss,
     Like&mdash;almost any thing&mdash;
     Or a yellow Albatross.
     They use that moon no more
     For the same end as before&mdash;
     Videlicet a tent&mdash;
     Which I think extravagant:
     Its atomies, however,
     Into a shower dissever,
     Of which those butterflies,
     Of Earth, who seek the skies,
     And so come down again
     (Never-contented things!)
     Have brought a specimen
     Upon their quivering wings.

     1831.
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE LAKE &mdash;&mdash; TO&mdash;&mdash;
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     IN spring of youth it was my lot
     To haunt of the wide earth a spot
     The which I could not love the less&mdash;
     So lovely was the loneliness
     Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
     And the tall pines that tower&rsquo;d around.

     But when the Night had thrown her pall
     Upon that spot, as upon all,
     And the mystic wind went by
     Murmuring in melody&mdash;
     Then&mdash;ah then I would awake
     To the terror of the lone lake.

     Yet that terror was not fright,
     But a tremulous delight&mdash;
     A feeling not the jewelled mine
     Could teach or bribe me to define&mdash;
     Nor Love&mdash;although the Love were thine.

     Death was in that poisonous wave,
     And in its gulf a fitting grave
     For him who thence could solace bring
     To his lone imagining&mdash;
     Whose solitary soul could make
     An Eden of that dim lake.

     1827.
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    EVENING STAR
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &lsquo;TWAS noontide of summer,
        And midtime of night,
     And stars, in their orbits,
        Shone pale, through the light
     Of the brighter, cold moon.
        &lsquo;Mid planets her slaves,
     Herself in the Heavens,
        Her beam on the waves.

        I gazed awhile
        On her cold smile;
     Too cold-too cold for me&mdash;
        There passed, as a shroud,
        A fleecy cloud,
     And I turned away to thee,

        Proud Evening Star,
        In thy glory afar
     And dearer thy beam shall be;
        For joy to my heart
        Is the proud part
     Thou bearest in Heaven at night.,
        And more I admire
        Thy distant fire,
     Than that colder, lowly light.

     1827.
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    &ldquo;THE HAPPIEST DAY.&rdquo;
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     I

     THE happiest day-the happiest hour
     My seared and blighted heart hath known,
     The highest hope of pride and power,
     I feel hath flown.

     Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
     But they have vanished long, alas!
     The visions of my youth have been
     But let them pass.

     III

     And pride, what have I now with thee?
     Another brow may ev&rsquo;n inherit
     The venom thou hast poured on me
     Be still my spirit!

     IV

     The happiest day-the happiest hour
     Mine eyes shall see-have ever seen
     The brightest glance of pride and power
     I feet have been:

     V

     But were that hope of pride and power
     Now offered with the pain
     Ev&rsquo;n <i>then I </i>felt-that brightest hour
     I would not live again:

             VI

     For on its wing was dark alloy
     And as it fluttered-fell
     An essence-powerful to destroy
     A soul that knew it well.

     1827.
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    IMITATION
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     A dark unfathom&rsquo;d tide
     Of interminable pride&mdash;
     A mystery, and a dream,
     Should my early life seem;
     I say that dream was fraught
     With a wild, and waking thought
     Of beings that have been,
     Which my spirit hath not seen,
     Had I let them pass me by,
     With a dreaming eye!
     Let none of earth inherit
     That vision on my spirit;
     Those thoughts I would control
     As a spell upon his soul:
     For that bright hope at last
     And that light time have past,
     And my worldly rest hath gone
     With a sigh as it pass&rsquo;d on
     I care not tho&rsquo; it perish
     With a thought I then did cherish.
     1827.
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    HYMN TO ARISTOGEITON AND HARMODIUS
</h2>
<h3>
    Translation from the Greek
</h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                I

     WREATHED in myrtle, my sword I&rsquo;ll conceal
     Like those champions devoted and brave,
     When they plunged in the tyrant their steel,
     And to Athens deliverance gave.

                II

     Beloved heroes! your deathless souls roam
     In the joy breathing isles of the blest;
     Where the mighty of old have their home
     Where Achilles and Diomed rest

                III

     In fresh myrtle my blade I&rsquo;ll entwine,
     Like Harmodius, the gallant and good,
     When he made at the tutelar shrine
     A libation of Tyranny&rsquo;s blood.

                IV

     Ye deliverers of Athens from shame!
     Ye avengers of Liberty&rsquo;s wrongs!
     Endless ages shall cherish your fame,
     Embalmed in their echoing songs!

     1827.
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    DREAMS
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
     My spirit not awak&rsquo;ning, till the beam
     Of an Eternity should bring the morrow:
     Yes! tho&rsquo; that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
     &lsquo;Twere better than the dull reality
     Of waking life to him whose heart shall be,
     And hath been ever, on the chilly earth,
     A chaos of deep passion from his birth!

     But should it be&mdash;that dream eternally
     Continuing&mdash;as dreams have been to me
     In my young boyhood&mdash;should it thus be given,
     &lsquo;Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven!
     For I have revell&rsquo;d, when the sun was bright
     In the summer sky; in dreamy fields of light,
     And left unheedingly my very heart
     In climes of mine imagining&mdash;apart
     From mine own home, with beings that have been
     Of mine own thought&mdash;what more could I have seen?

     &lsquo;Twas once &amp; <i>only</i> once &amp; the wild hour
     From my rememberance shall not pass&mdash;some power
     Or spell had bound me&mdash;&lsquo;twas the chilly wind
     Came o&rsquo;er me in the night &amp; left behind
     Its image on my spirit, or the moon
     Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
     Too coldly&mdash;or the stars&mdash;howe&rsquo;er it was
     That dream was as that night wind&mdash;let it pass.

     I have been happy&mdash;tho&rsquo; but in a dream
     I have been happy&mdash;&amp; I love the theme&mdash;
     Dreams! in their vivid colouring of life&mdash;
     As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
     Of semblance with reality which brings
     To the delirious eye more lovely things
     Of Paradise &amp; Love&mdash;&amp; all our own!
     Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.

         {From an earlier MS. Than in the book&mdash;ED.}
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    &ldquo;IN YOUTH I HAVE KNOWN ONE&rdquo;
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <i>How often we forget all time, when lone
     Admiring Nature&rsquo;s universal throne;
     Her woods&mdash;her wilds&mdash;her mountains-the intense
     Reply of Hers to Our intelligence!</i>

                             I

     IN youth I have known one with whom the Earth
         In secret communing held-as he with it,
     In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
         Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
     From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
         A passionate light such for his spirit was fit
     And yet that spirit knew-not in the hour
         Of its own fervor-what had o&rsquo;er it power.

                            II

     Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
         To a fever* by the moonbeam that hangs o&rsquo;er,
     But I will half believe that wild light fraught
         With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
     Hath ever told-or is it of a thought
         The unembodied essence, and no more
     That with a quickening spell doth o&rsquo;er us pass
         As dew of the night-time, o&rsquo;er the summer grass?

                                   III

     Doth o&rsquo;er us pass, when, as th&rsquo; expanding eye
         To the loved object-so the tear to the lid
     Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
         And yet it need not be&mdash;(that object) hid
     From us in life-but common-which doth lie
         Each hour before us&mdash;but then only bid
     With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
         T&rsquo; awake us&mdash;&lsquo;Tis a symbol and a token

                               IV

     Of what in other worlds shall be&mdash;and given
         In beauty by our God, to those alone
     Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
         Drawn by their heart&rsquo;s passion, and that tone,
     That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
         Though not with Faith-with godliness&mdash;whose throne
     With desperate energy &lsquo;t hath beaten down;
         Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

          * Query &ldquo;fervor&rdquo;?&mdash;ED.
</pre>
<p>
    A PÆAN.
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
                         I.

     How shall the burial rite be read?
         The solemn song be sung?
     The requiem for the loveliest dead,
         That ever died so young?

                         II.

     Her friends are gazing on her,
         And on her gaudy bier,
     And weep!&mdash;oh! to dishonor
         Dead beauty with a tear!

                        III.

     They loved her for her wealth&mdash;
         And they hated her for her pride&mdash;
     But she grew in feeble health,
         And they <i>love</i> her&mdash;that she died.

                       IV.

     They tell me (while they speak
         Of her &ldquo;costly broider&rsquo;d pall&rdquo;)
     That my voice is growing weak&mdash;
         That I should not sing at all&mdash;

                        V.

     Or that my tone should be
         Tun&rsquo;d to such solemn song
     So mournfully&mdash;so mournfully,
         That the dead may feel no wrong.

                       VI.

     But she is gone above,
         With young Hope at her side,
     And I am drunk with love
         Of the dead, who is my bride.&mdash;

                      VII.

     Of the dead&mdash;dead who lies
         All perfum&rsquo;d there,
     With the death upon her eyes,
         And the life upon her hair.

                     VIII.

     Thus on the coffin loud and long
         I strike&mdash;the murmur sent
     Through the grey chambers to my song,
         Shall be the accompaniment.

                      IX.

     Thou died&rsquo;st in thy life&rsquo;s June&mdash;
         But thou did&rsquo;st not die too fair:
     Thou did&rsquo;st not die too soon,
         Nor with too calm an air.

                       X.

     From more than fiends on earth,
         Thy life and love are riven,
     To join the untainted mirth
         Of more than thrones in heaven&mdash;

                      XII.

     Therefore, to thee this night
         I will no requiem raise,
     But waft thee on thy flight,
         With a Pæan of old days.
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    NOTES
</h2>
<p>
    30. On the &ldquo;Poems written in Youth&rdquo; little comment is needed. This section
    includes the pieces printed for first volume of 1827 (which was
    subsequently suppressed), such poems from the first and second published
    volumes of 1829 and 1831 as have not already been given in their revised
    versions, and a few others collected from various sources. &ldquo;Al Aaraaf&rdquo;
    first appeared, with the sonnet &ldquo;To Silence&rdquo; prefixed to it, in 1829, and
    is, substantially, as originally issued. In the edition for 1831, however,
    this poem, its author&rsquo;s longest, was introduced by the following
    twenty-nine lines, which have been omitted in&mdash;all subsequent
    collections:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     AL AARAAF

     Mysterious star!
     Thou wert my dream
     All a long summer night&mdash;
     Be now my theme!
     By this clear stream,
     Of thee will I write;
     Meantime from afar
     Bathe me in light I

     Thy world has not the dross of ours,
     Yet all the beauty-all the flowers
     That list our love or deck our bowers
     In dreamy gardens, where do lie
     Dreamy maidens all the day;
     While the silver winds of Circassy
     On violet couches faint away.
     Little&mdash;oh &ldquo;little dwells in thee&rdquo;
      Like unto what on earth we see:
     Beauty&rsquo;s eye is here the bluest
     In the falsest and untruest&mdash;On the sweetest
     air doth float
     The most sad and solemn note&mdash;

     If with thee be broken hearts,
     Joy so peacefully departs,
     That its echo still doth dwell,
     Like the murmur in the shell.
     Thou! thy truest type of grief
     Is the gently falling leaf!
     Thy framing is so holy
     Sorrow is not melancholy.
</pre>
<p>
    31. The earliest version of &ldquo;Tamerlane&rdquo; was included in the suppressed
    volume of 1827, but differs very considerably from the poem as now
    published. The present draft, besides innumerable verbal alterations and
    improvements upon the original, is more carefully punctuated, and, the
    lines being indented, presents a more pleasing appearance, to the eye at
    least.
</p>
<p>
    32. &ldquo;To Helen&rdquo; first appeared in the 1831 volume, as did also &ldquo;The Valley
    of Unrest&rdquo; (as &ldquo;The Valley Nis&rdquo;), &ldquo;Israfel,&rdquo; and one or two others of the
    youthful pieces. The poem styled &ldquo;Romance,&rdquo; constituted the Preface of the
    1829 volume, but with the addition of the following lines:
</p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Succeeding years, too wild for song,
     Then rolled like tropic storms along,
     Where, through the garish lights that fly
     Dying along the troubled sky,
     Lay bare, through vistas thunder-riven,
     The blackness of the general Heaven,
     That very blackness yet doth Ring
     Light on the lightning&rsquo;s silver wing.

     For being an idle boy lang syne;
     Who read Anacreon and drank wine,
     I early found Anacreon rhymes
     Were almost passionate sometimes&mdash;
     And by strange alchemy of brain
     His pleasures always turned to pain&mdash;
     His naiveté to wild desire&mdash;
     His wit to love-his wine to fire&mdash;
     And so, being young and dipt in folly,
     I fell in love with melancholy,

     And used to throw my earthly rest
     And quiet all away in jest&mdash;
     I could not love except where Death
     Was mingling his with Beauty&rsquo;s breath&mdash;
     Or Hymen, Time, and Destiny,
     Were stalking between her and me.
</pre>
<hr />
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     But now my soul hath too much room&mdash;
     Gone are the glory and the gloom&mdash;
     The black hath mellow&rsquo;d into gray,
     And all the fires are fading away.

     My draught of passion hath been deep&mdash;
     I revell&rsquo;d, and I now would sleep
     And after drunkenness of soul
     Succeeds the glories of the bowl
     An idle longing night and day
     To dream my very life away.

     But dreams&mdash;of those who dream as I,
     Aspiringly, are damned, and die:
     Yet should I swear I mean alone,
     By notes so very shrilly blown,
     To break upon Time&rsquo;s monotone,
     While yet my vapid joy and grief
     Are tintless of the yellow leaf&mdash;
     Why not an imp the graybeard hath,
     Will shake his shadow in my path&mdash;
     And e&rsquo;en the graybeard will o&rsquo;erlook
     Connivingly my dreaming-book.
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    DOUBTFUL POEMS
</h2>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    ALONE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     From childhood&rsquo;s hour I have not been
     As others were&mdash;I have not seen
     As others saw&mdash;I could not bring
     My passions from a common spring&mdash;
     From the same source I have not taken
     My sorrow&mdash;I could not awaken
     My heart to joy at the same tone&mdash;
     And all I lov&rsquo;d&mdash;<i>I</i> lov&rsquo;d alone&mdash;
     <i>Then</i>&mdash;in my childhood&mdash;in the dawn
     Of a most stormy life&mdash;was drawn
     From ev&rsquo;ry depth of good and ill
     The mystery which binds me still&mdash;
     From the torrent, or the fountain&mdash;
     From the red cliff of the mountain&mdash;
     From the sun that &lsquo;round me roll&rsquo;d
     In its autumn tint of gold&mdash;
     From the lightning in the sky
     As it pass&rsquo;d me flying by&mdash;
     From the thunder, and the storm&mdash;
     And the cloud that took the form
     (When the rest of Heaven was blue)
     Of a demon in my view&mdash;
</pre>
<p>
    {This poem is no longer considered doubtful as it was in 1903. Liberty has
    been taken to replace the book version with an earlier, perhaps more
    original manuscript version&mdash;Ed}
</p>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    TO ISADORE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
             I

     BENEATH the vine-clad eaves,
         Whose shadows fall before
         Thy lowly cottage door
     Under the lilac&rsquo;s tremulous leaves&mdash;
     Within thy snowy claspeèd hand
         The purple flowers it bore..
     Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
     Like queenly nymphs from Fairy-land&mdash;
     Enchantress of the flowery wand,
         Most beauteous Isadore!

              II

     And when I bade the dream
         Upon thy spirit flee,
         Thy violet eyes to me
     Upturned, did overflowing seem
     With the deep, untold delight
         Of Love&rsquo;s serenity;
     Thy classic brow, like lilies white
     And pale as the Imperial Night
     Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
         Enthralled my soul to thee!

                 III

     Ah I ever I behold
         Thy dreamy, passionate eyes,
         Blue as the languid skies

     Hung with the sunset&rsquo;s fringe of gold;
     Now strangely clear thine image grows,
         And olden memories
     Are startled from their long repose
     Like shadows on the silent snows
     When suddenly the night-wind blows
         Where quiet moonlight ties.

              IV

     Like music heard in dreams,
         Like strains of harps unknown,
         Of birds forever flown
     Audible as the voice of streams
     That murmur in some leafy dell,
         I hear thy gentlest tone,
     And Silence cometh with her spell
     Like that which on my tongue doth dwell,
     When tremulous in dreams I tell
         My love to thee alone!

              V

     In every valley heard,
         Floating from tree to tree,
         Less beautiful to, me,
     The music of the radiant bird,
     Than artless accents such as thine
         Whose echoes never flee!
     Ah! how for thy sweet voice I pine:&mdash;
     For uttered in thy tones benign
     (Enchantress!) this rude name of mine

         Doth seem a melody!
</pre>
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<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE VILLAGE STREET
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     IN these rapid, restless shadows,
         Once I walked at eventide,
     When a gentle, silent maiden,
         Wal    ked in beauty at my side
     She alone there walked beside me
         All in beauty, like a bride.

     Pallidly the moon was shining
         On the dewy meadows nigh;
     On the silvery, silent rivers,
         On the mountains far and high
     On the ocean&rsquo;s star-lit waters,
         Where the winds a-weary die.

     Slowly, silently we wandered
     From the open cottage door,
     Underneath the elm&rsquo;s long branches
     To the pavement bending o&rsquo;er;
     Underneath the mossy willow
     And the dying sycamore.

     With the myriad stars in beauty
     All bedight, the heavens were seen,
     Radiant hopes were bright around me,
     Like the light of stars serene;
     Like the mellow midnight splendor
     Of the Night&rsquo;s irradiate queen.

     Audibly the elm-leaves whispered
         Peaceful, pleasant melodies,
     Like the distant murmured music
         Of unquiet, lovely seas:
     While the winds were hushed in slumber
         In the fragrant flowers and trees.

     Wondrous and unwonted beauty
         Still adorning all did seem,
     While I told my love in fables
         &lsquo;Neath the willows by the stream;
     Would the heart have kept unspoken
         Love that was its rarest dream!

     Instantly away we wandered
         In the shadowy twilight tide,
     She, the silent, scornful maiden,
         Walking calmly at my side,
     With a step serene and stately,
         All in beauty, all in pride.

     Vacantly I walked beside her.
         On the earth mine eyes were cast;
     Swift and keen there came unto me
         Ritter memories of the past
     On me, like the rain in Autumn
         On the dead leaves, cold and fast.

     Underneath the elms we parted,
         By the lowly cottage door;
     One brief word alone was uttered
         Never on our lips before;
     And away I walked forlornly,
         Broken-hearted evermore.

     Slowly, silently I loitered,
         Homeward, in the night, alone;
     Sudden anguish bound my spirit,
         That my youth had never known;
     Wild unrest, like that which cometh
         When the Night&rsquo;s first dream hath flown.

     Now, to me the elm-leaves whisper
         Mad, discordant melodies,
     And keen melodies like shadows
         Haunt the moaning willow trees,
     And the sycamores with laughter
         Mock me in the nightly breeze.

     Sad and pale the Autumn moonlight
         Through the sighing foliage streams;
     And each morning, midnight shadow,
         Shadow of my sorrow seems;
     Strive, 0 heart, forget thine idol!
         And, 0 soul, forget thy dreams!
</pre>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    THE FOREST REVERIE
</h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     &lsquo;Tis said that when
     The hands of men
     Tamed this primeval wood,
     And hoary trees with groans of woe,
     Like warriors by an unknown foe,
     Were in their strength subdued,
     The virgin Earth Gave instant birth
     To springs that ne&rsquo;er did flow
     That in the sun Did rivulets run,
     And all around rare flowers did blow
     The wild rose pale Perfumed the gale
     And the queenly lily adown the dale
     (Whom the sun and the dew
     And the winds did woo),
     With the gourd and the grape luxuriant grew.

     So when in tears
     The love of years
     Is wasted like the snow,
     And the fine fibrils of its life
     By the rude wrong of instant strife
     Are broken at a blow
     Within the heart
     Do springs upstart
     Of which it doth now know,
     And strange, sweet dreams,
     Like silent streams
     That from new fountains overflow,
     With the earlier tide
     Of rivers glide
     Deep in the heart whose hope has died&mdash;
     Quenching the fires its ashes hide,&mdash;
     Its ashes, whence will spring and grow
     Sweet flowers, ere long,
     The rare and radiant flowers of song!
</pre>
<p>
    <a name="link2H_NOTE3" id="link2H_NOTE3">
        <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
</p>
<div style="height: 4em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<h2>
    NOTES
</h2>
<p>
    Of the many verses from time to time ascribed to the pen of Edgar Poe, and
    not included among his known writings, the lines entitled &ldquo;Alone&rdquo; have the
    chief claim to our notice. <i>Fac-simile </i>copies of this piece had been
    in possession of the present editor some time previous to its publication
    in &ldquo;Scribner&rsquo;s Magazine&rdquo; for September, 1875; but as proofs of the
    authorship claimed for it were not forthcoming, he refrained from
    publishing it as requested. The desired proofs have not yet been adduced,
    and there is, at present, nothing but internal evidence to guide us.
    &ldquo;Alone&rdquo; is stated to have been written by Poe in the album of a Baltimore
    lady (Mrs. Balderstone?), on March 17th, 1829, and the facsimile given in
    &ldquo;Scribner&rsquo;s&rdquo; is alleged to be of his handwriting. If the caligraphy be
    Poe&rsquo;s, it is different in all essential respects from all the many
    specimens known to us, and strongly resembles that of the writer of the
    heading and dating of the manuscript, both of which the contributor of the
    poem acknowledges to have been recently added. The lines, however, if not
    by Poe, are the most successful imitation of his early mannerisms yet made
    public, and, in the opinion of one well qualified to speak, &ldquo;are not
    unworthy on the whole of the parentage claimed for them.&rdquo;
</p>
<p>
    While Edgar Poe was editor of the &ldquo;Broadway Journal,&rdquo; some lines &ldquo;To
    Isadore&rdquo; appeared therein, and, like several of his known pieces, bore no
    signature. They were at once ascribed to Poe, and in order to satisfy
    questioners, an editorial paragraph subsequently appeared saying they were
    by &ldquo;A. Ide, junior.&rdquo; Two previous poems had appeared in the &ldquo;Broadway
    journal&rdquo; over the signature of &ldquo;A. M. Ide,&rdquo; and whoever wrote them was
    also the author of the lines &ldquo;To Isadore.&rdquo; In order, doubtless, to give a
    show of variety, Poe was then publishing some of his known works in his
    journal over <i>noms de plume, </i>and as no other writings whatever can
    be traced to any person bearing the name of &ldquo;A. M. Ide,&rdquo; it is not
    impossible that the poems now republished in this collection may be by the
    author of &ldquo;The Raven.&rdquo; Having been published without his usual elaborate
    revision, Poe may have wished to <i>hide </i>his hasty work under an
    assumed name. The three pieces are included in the present collection, so
    the reader can judge for himself what pretensions they possess to be by
    the author of &ldquo;The Raven.&rdquo;
</p>
<div style="height: 6em;">
    <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
</div>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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</pre>
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